The world should've stopped.
But it didn't.
Ash knelt on the cold warehouse floor, his hands shaking, Vernon's body cradled against his chest. Rain drifted through the broken roof, mixing with the blood on his fingers. The agents had swept the area, clearing room by room, their boots echoing like the ticking of a clock that refused to pause.
Ash's ears rang. His vision blurred. All he could see was Vernon's face—still, pale, impossibly calm.
"No… no, no, no…"
His voice cracked. His throat burned. "Don't do this. Not now."
He pressed his forehead to Vernon's. "You still owe me an ending."
But Vernon didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't answer.
Ash's fingers curled around the small data chip Vernon had shoved into his hand moments before. It felt heavier than anything he'd ever held. Heavy with secrets. Heavy with truth. Heavy with the pieces of a life he thought he understood.
A shout echoed from the far end of the warehouse.
"Status confirmed! One hostile deceased!"
Ash's blood froze.
They meant Vernon.
"Second hostile—secured!"
They meant him.
Hands grabbed his shoulders, rough and swift. Ash was dragged away from Vernon's body, his fingernails scraping across the concrete in a desperate, useless attempt to hold on.
"No—NO!"
His scream tore through the space like something feral.
The agents tightened their grip, forcing him toward the exit. "Target incapacitated. Transporting now."
Ash fought, but the world was tilting, fading. His lungs struggled for air as if the warehouse had collapsed on top of him.
Vernon is dead.
Vernon is dead.
Vernon—
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't think.
He couldn't exist.
The last thing he saw before they shoved him out into the storm was Vernon's still figure, illuminated by a strip of flickering light.
A life cut short.
By his hands.
By his choices.
By this twisted, endless war.
And then everything went black.
He woke to darkness. To the hum of an engine. To cuffs around his wrists.
Ash's head throbbed, every heartbeat like a hammer pounding through his skull. His vision sharpened slowly—metal walls, dim blue lights, the vibration of a transport van speeding down the empty highway.
Rain hit the roof in steady patterns.
The storm hadn't stopped.
Neither had his mission.
Across from him sat a man he didn't recognize — stern, silent, expression carved in stone.
"Where are you taking me?" Ash asked, voice hollow.
The man didn't answer.
Ash leaned forward, chains rattling. "Vernon didn't have to die."
Still, no reaction.
But Ash saw something in the man's eyes — a flicker. A hesitation.
A secret.
Ash inhaled sharply. "You know something."
The man's jaw tightened. His eyes darted away.
And Ash understood.
Vernon's body had never been recovered.
Something happened after the agents dragged Ash out.
Something the man in front of him wasn't allowed to say.
"Tell me what you saw," Ash whispered, voice trembling with equal parts fury and fear.
Silence.
Then the van suddenly skidded — violently.
The tires shrieked against the wet road, throwing their bodies sideways. The lights flickered. Something slammed into the roof hard enough to leave a dent.
"What the hell—"
The guard reached for his gun—
The roof ripped open.
Metal peeled back like paper. Rain poured inside. Wind howled. Ash shielded his face from debris as a black figure dropped through the opening.
A blur.
A shadow.
A presence he felt more than saw.
The guard fired wildly into the dark.
The figure moved with inhuman precision — a twist, a strike, a flash of steel.
The guard slumped, unconscious.
The figure landed in front of Ash, drenched in rainwater, mask reflecting the lightning.
Ash's breath caught in his throat.
"You…" he whispered.
The figure leaned closer, fingers brushing his hand — the briefest, softest touch, like a memory returning.
Then a voice, low and unmistakably familiar, murmured:
"Come with me if you want answers."
Ash's heart stalled.
It couldn't be.
But he knew that voice even through storms, betrayal, and death.
"V–Vernon?"
The figure didn't deny it.
Instead, he sliced Ash's cuffs clean through, metal clattering to the floor.
The van swerved again, losing control. The figure gripped Ash's wrist, pulling him toward the torn roof.
"Jump!" the figure ordered.
Ash didn't hesitate.
Because dead men didn't speak.
And this one just did.
Together, they leapt into the storm.
The van exploded behind them in a ball of fire, lighting up the night like a second sun.
Ash rolled across the wet asphalt, coughing, gasping, struggling to his feet. The figure was already standing, silhouette sharp against the burning wreckage, coat whipping in the wind.
Lightning flashed.
For a moment, the mask shifted, revealing part of a face he knew by heart — a scar, a jawline, a glint of eyes that had once softened for him.
"Ash," the figure said, voice steady despite the chaos.
"We don't have much time."
Ash took a step toward him, shock shaking all the way down to his bones.
"You died," he whispered.
"I saw you die."
The figure lifted his chin slightly.
"And yet… here I am."
Ash's pulse hammered.
"Why?" he breathed. "Why hide? Why save me now?"
Thunder cracked above them.
The flames behind them roared.
The figure stepped closer until the rain dripping from his mask touched Ash's cheek.
"Because we are running out of cycles."
Ash froze. "Cycles?"
The figure nodded. "This isn't the first time we've hunted each other. Or loved each other. Or died for each other."
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the truth in those words.
Ash's knees nearly buckled.
"Who… are you?" he whispered.
The figure reached up — slowly — fingers brushing the edge of the mask.
And though he didn't remove it fully, Ash saw enough.
Enough to know.
Enough to break.
Enough to hope.
"I'm the one you killed," the figure said softly.
"And the one who refuses to stay dead."
The rain washed over them, a storm swallowing the entire world.
And in that storm, Ash realized:
Their story wasn't over.
It had just restarted.