Chapter 34: Two New Deadbags
The earpiece was silent. Dead air. Kyleson pressed the call button again, then again, his thumb growing slick with sweat against the plastic.
"Architect? Come in. This isn't funny."
Nothing.
A prank. It had to be a prank. The Architect loved his games, his little psychological tests. This was just another one—go silent, make the pupil panic, then reappear with a lecture about composure under pressure.
Kyleson forced himself to breathe. He continued climbing.
---
First Deadbag
The third-floor landing was darker than the others. The smoke from outside had found its way in, curling through broken windows, turning the corridor into a ghost's hallway. Kyleson's footsteps echoed against walls he couldn't see.
Then he saw the door. Open. A sliver of light from within.
He approached slowly, his empty pistol raised—useless, but it felt better in his hand than nothing. He pushed the door open with his foot.
The room was small. Abandoned furniture, a overturned mattress, shattered glass on the floor.
And a body.
It lay in the center of the room, sprawled on its back. Black clothing. Long coat. A mask covering the lower face, now slack and meaningless. It was the architect!
For one frozen second, Kyleson's mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing.
No. No, that's not—
A sound behind him.
He spun.
A figure stood in the doorway. Hoodie, jeans, young. His mouth was a grotesque line—not a natural feature, but a scar, a deliberate slit from some past violence that had healed wrong. In his hand, a gun. Not raised. Just held. Casual. The job was already done.
Kyleson looked back at the body. The clothing. The mask. The stillness.
It's him. Oh God, it's him.
Backstory
The figure in the hoodie raised his gun, at the corpse. A single, final shot. The bullet entered the Architect's skull with a wet
Present
Then the figure turned and walked away, footsteps fading down the corridor, down the stairs, gone.
Kyleson stood paralyzed. His legs would not move. His voice would not work. He could only stare at the body of his master, the man who had promised him purpose, the architect of everything—now just meat on a dirty floor.
---
The man in the hoodie descended the stairs with the unhurried pace of someone who had nowhere to be and no one chasing him. He reached the ground floor, crossed the lobby, and stepped out into the smoke-choked street.
No one noticed him. No one looked twice.
An abandoned motorcycle sat against a lamppost, keys still in the ignition. A gift from a universe that seemed to want him to succeed. He swung a leg over, kicked it to life, and merged into the chaos of fleeing cars and emergency vehicles.
His destination was simple. The nearest metro station. Then gone.
He didn't look back at the building where he'd left his work. He didn't need to. The job was done.
---
The Old Man
The old man moved through the chaos like a ghost. His ribs ached where Kyleson had kicked him. His lungs burned from the smoke. But his eyes—those clear, terrible eyes—never stopped scanning.
A taxi. Idling at the edge of the evacuation zone, driver leaning against the door, watching the smoke rise with the numb expression of a man who had seen too much.
The old man approached. "Hey. Where's the airport? The one that flies to Kansas?"
The driver looked him over—the ruined herringbone coat, the grime, the blood on his collar. A thousand questions flickered behind his eyes. He asked none of them. "Uh, sir, it's around fourteen kilometers."
"How much?"
"Give twenty-five and come sit."
The old man nodded. "Sure enough."
He settled into the back seat, the worn fabric sighing under his weight. The driver shifted gears and pulled away, leaving the burning city behind.
Through the rear window, the old man watched the smoke recede. His mind, sharp as ever despite the beating, began to drift.
Thirty years. Thirty straight years I've been here. Is my wife still alive? She must think I'm dead. She probably remarried. Moved on. And what have I done? I missed my son's wedding. I never held my grandchildren. I threw it all away for... what? A sense of duty? A fear of being ordinary?
He closed his eyes. The taxi hummed beneath him, carrying him toward an uncertain reunion with a life he'd abandoned.
What can I really do now?
He didn't have an answer. But for the first time in three decades, he was going home to find one.
---
Kyleson
The tears came without warning.
One moment Kyleson was standing over the body, numb. The next, his knees hit the floor and the sobs tore from his chest, raw and animal.
"No. No, no, no—"
He grabbed the Architect's shoulders, shaking him as if sleep could be broken. The head lolled. The mask stayed in place, hiding a face Kyleson had never seen, never would see.
"How? How did this happen? You were—you were untouchable. You said—"
But the Architect said nothing. Would never say anything again.
Kyleson didn't hear the sirens outside. Didn't feel the vibration of the building settling around him. Didn't notice that he was alone, truly alone, for the first time since he'd answered that first encrypted message.
After a long time—minutes, hours, he couldn't tell—he stood. His legs were unsteady. His face was wet. But something else was forming in his chest, beneath the grief. A hard, hot coal.
He pulled out his phone. Took a photo of the body. Evidence. Proof. Fuel.
His voice, when it came, was cracked but clear:
"I will avenge whoever took the life of our leader."
He looked at the photo, then pocketed the phone.
"Be sure. I will end everything. Even if everything is right and we are wrong. I don't care anymore."
He turned and walked out, leaving the Architect to the silence and the smoke.
---
Second Deadbag
The Kansas sunset was a masterpiece—bands of orange and gold bleeding into a darkening blue sky. The wheat fields swayed in the evening breeze, a gentle ocean of grain.
Eleanor Carter sat in the old wooden chair on the porch, her son beside her. They had talked for hours—about John, about the farm, about old memories. Now a comfortable silence had settled between them, the kind that only decades of love could create.
"Remember the time you almost snuck out as a child?" Eleanor said, a smile in her voice. "You were about to go missing. Your father was so tense. Pacing the floor for hours until we found you at the Miller's pond."
Noah smiled. "I remember, Mom. You were always so helpful. Both of you."
"Well, your father is in heaven now." Eleanor's eyes glistened. "What can we do?"
Noah stood, walking to the edge of the porch. He faced the sunset, his back to her. His voice, when it came, was soft—almost dreamy.
"What if he isn't?"
Eleanor's brow furrowed. "Have you gone crazy? He's so old now. It's been thirty years."
"Being old doesn't necessarily mean dying." Noah turned, and there was something in his expression that made Eleanor's heart stutter. "Maybe you're too careless to care about him. Maybe that's why he left you."
"WHAT are you babbling about?" Anger now, hot and confused.
Noah walked toward her, slow and deliberate. He knelt before her chair, taking her weathered hands in his. His eyes, when they met hers, were soft. Kind. Terrifying.
"Most people can't handle guilt, Mom. Or their own mistakes. You're one of them." His voice was gentle, almost loving. "If you didn't care about Father, then he must have left you for a reason. Thirty years of silence doesn't happen by accident." He leaned closer. "Look me in the eye. This is the grief Father had. Because you weren't there for him."
Eleanor's face crumpled. Tears spilled down her wrinkled cheeks. Noah reached up, wiping them away with his thumb, tender as a child.
"It's okay," he whispered. "I may talk about something else now."
She sniffled, trying to compose herself. "I... I feel guilty. I'm sorry, husband." She looked at Noah, searching his face for the son she thought she knew. "What do you want to speak about, child?"
Noah stood, stepping back. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Heavier.
"Me and Luna have been getting death threats. We're on the news. Everyone thinks we're part of it—the murders, the riots, all of it." A tear traced his own cheek. "And I want to protect you from all those threats."
Eleanor's eyes widened with concern. "Yes, I watched the news, dear. It broke my heart. But how can you protect me?"
Noah reached into his jacket.
The gun was small. Black. Unremarkable. He raised it with a hand that did not tremble.
The shot was loud in the quiet evening. A single, sharp crack that sent birds scattering from the nearby fields.
Eleanor's eyes went wide—not with pain, but with something worse. Confusion. Betrayal. The face of a mother who could not understand why her son had become a stranger.
She slumped in the chair, a dark bloom spreading across her chest.
Noah fell to his knees. The gun clattered on the porch. He crawled to her, gathering her in his arms, her blood warm against his shirt.
"I wanted to protect you," he sobbed, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "Please listen to me. I wanted to protect you from all of it—the comments, the hate, the people who would hurt you because of me. Please. Please understand."
But Eleanor's eyes were already fixed on something he couldn't see.
He held her for a long time, rocking gently, whispering apologies to a woman who could no longer hear.
Finally, he laid her gently in the chair. He stood, walked to the edge of the porch, and lowered himself onto the wooden planks. The wheat fields stretched before him, golden and indifferent.
He pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. The smoke curled upward, joining the last light of the dying sun.
He didn't look back at the chair.
He didn't need to.
The work was done.
---
Chapter 34 Ends
To Be Continued...