August 5th, 2026
At a small church in Cremont City
7:12 PM
The evening in Cremont City bled into darkness. Clouds gathered thickly, blotting out what little light the horizon offered, until the whole city seemed cloaked in shadows. The church bells tolled faintly, their hollow sound carried away by the restless wind.
Inside, the priest continued the funeral service, his solemn voice echoing through the dim chapel. Psalms floated in the air like smoke, fading quickly against the stone walls.
But Rio no longer listened.
He stood, the rigidness of a soldier still in his posture, and quietly slipped out through the heavy doors of the church.
The world outside welcomed him with silence.
The courtyard was nearly deserted, save for a row of rusting metal ashtrays and an old tin roof covering the designated smoking area. The benches there were wet with moisture, and the faint scent of tobacco hung in the evening air.
Rio pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out, and set it between his lips. His lighter clicked open. Flame touched tobacco. The cigarette flared alive, burning faintly against the gloom.
He drew in the smoke, the taste sharp and bitter on his tongue. It curled from his mouth in gray tendrils, vanishing into the heavy night air.
Then...
A drop landed in his palm.
Rio looked up. The first raindrop was followed by another, then another. Within moments, the sky opened, and rain fell hard, drumming against the roof of the smoking area, splashing against stone, soaking his shoulders.
But Rio didn't move. Didn't flinch.
The rain didn't matter.
He smoked steadily, letting it wash over him, the ember of his cigarette glowing stubbornly against the storm.
Footsteps interrupted the rhythm of falling rain.
Rio shifted his gaze.
Through the curtain of rain, a figure approached, tall, old, his steps heavy and deliberate. His face carried deep lines carved by years of hardship, his hair streaked with gray, his suit worn and dampened by rain. There was something in his eyes, something that looked like grief mixed with exhaustion.
Rio's storm-gray eyes narrowed slightly. Recognition struck him.
I've seen him before.
A memory flickered, his father, Janus, speaking of a trusted friend. Someone who had stood by him in difficult times. Someone who was more than an acquaintance but less than family.
Now here he was.
The man stopped under the small shelter of the smoking area, wiping rain from his brow before pulling out his own pack of cigarettes.
"You look… different," the man said quietly, his voice rough with age and grief. "Since the last time I saw you."
Rio lowered his cigarette slightly, his tone flat but respectful. "Sir." He gave the man a slight nod. "It's been a long time."
The old man gave a humorless smile, then struck a match, lighting his own cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled a long plume of smoke. His hand trembled faintly as he held it.
"I'm sorry, Rio," the man said after a moment, his voice carrying both sincerity and weariness. "Sorry your father's gone."
Rio's jaw tightened. He let the smoke linger in his lungs before releasing it into the rain. His eyes, sharp and cold, fixed on the man.
"How did he die?" he asked bluntly.
The man's expression softened with sorrow. He looked down at the wet ground, then back at Rio. "A sickness… terminal. But more than that, a heartbreak."
Rio didn't answer. His face was a mask of stone, though inside, the words lodged like shards of glass. He drew another drag from his cigarette, his silence saying more than words could.
The man sighed, his shoulders sagging. He smoked slowly, the ember lighting his lined features. His eyes drifted as though seeing memories unfold.
"What happened to him," the man began, his voice heavy, "was… devastating. More than anyone should ever endure."
Rio's storm-gray eyes flicked toward him. "I want to know." His voice was low, steady. Almost dangerous.
The man inhaled deeply, exhaled, and then nodded slowly.
"It was one night…"
The scene flashed into a memory...
The scene shifted in Rio's mind as the man spoke.
Janus Castellan stood outside his friend's home. His fists banged against the door with desperation. His face was streaked with tears, his chest heaving as though he'd run through the night.
The door opened, and the old man saw him, disheveled, trembling, broken.
"Janus?" the man asked in alarm. "What happened?"
Janus stumbled inside, nearly collapsing against the furniture. His eyes were red, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
"I… I saw her," Janus gasped. "I saw Isabela… kissing another man."
The old man froze. "Are you sure?"
"I know what I saw!" Janus cried, his voice raw, cracking. "I saw it with my own eyes!"
The old man's brow furrowed. "Do you have proof? Anything?"
Janus shook his head violently, clutching his hair with trembling fingers. "No… no, but I know what I saw." His body collapsed into the couch, and he buried his face in his hands. "My God… she betrayed me…"
Back to the rain...
The friend's voice was quiet, almost breaking. "Your father… he was utterly broken that night. I'd never seen him like that. It was as if the world itself had crumbled under his feet."
Rio's hand tightened around his cigarette. He didn't speak. The rain pattered harder, soaking his uniform, dripping down his sharp features.
The man took another drag, his expression grim. "And then came the divorce."
The scene flashed again into a memory..
The last divorce proceeding...
The courtroom was cold, clinical. The air thick with silence, broken only by the shuffle of papers and the judge's monotone voice.
Isabela Castellan sat straight-backed, her face expressionless, lips pressed into a thin line. Beside her sat Alessandra, Marcella, and Selene, their eyes just as blank, their faces cold, their postures rigid.
Across from them sat Janus. His face was pale, weary, but alive with desperate hope.
"Isabela, please," he begged, his voice shaking, his hands outstretched. "Don't do this. We can fix it… we can fix everything. Just… come back."
But Isabela said nothing.
Neither did the daughters.
They simply stared at him with empty eyes. Eyes that once carried love, now hollow, almost foreign.
"Please," Janus whispered, his voice breaking. "You're my family… you're my everything…"
The judge's voice cut through like a knife. Cold. Robotic. Dismissive. As if he sounded like he was controlled by some unknown party.
"The court finds in favor of Isabela Castellan. Full custody of marital assets is hereby granted to the plaintiff. The children, Alessandra, Marcella, and Selene Castellan, have chosen to sever ties with their father."
The gavel struck.
And Janus shattered.
He broke down uncontrollably, his sobs filling the courtroom. His body shook with grief, his hands clutching at air as though trying to grab onto something, anything, to hold himself together.
But nothing was left.
Back to the rain..
The man's voice quivered as he spoke, the memory still haunting. "I can still hear him, Rio. I can still hear your father crying… even when I close my eyes at night. It was… it was the most devastating thing I've ever seen."
Rio's fist trembled at his side, balled tightly, his knuckles white. His storm-gray eyes blazed under the rain.
The man swallowed hard. His voice lowered. "And when he died… no one visited him. Not your mother. Not your sisters. No one. He was… alone. I was the only one who ever came to see him, from time to time."
The words pierced like a blade.
Rio inhaled sharply, then exhaled, forcing calm into his burning chest. He reached into his pack and lit another cigarette with a steady hand, even though his heart thundered with fury. The flame hissed against the falling rain before the ember caught.
The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope, its paper edges weathered and worn. He held it out.
Rio looked at it, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "What's this?"
"Photos," the man said quietly. "Your mother. And the man she betrayed your father with. Janus hired a private investigator… he kept them. Thought you could use them more than I could."
Rio stared at the envelope for a long moment, then slowly took it. His hand was steady, but his grip was iron.
The man drew one last drag from his cigarette, exhaled, then dropped the stub into the ground. He gave Rio a long, melancholic look.
"I wish things were different," he said softly. "I wish your father hadn't suffered the way he did. But… it's the truth. That's all I can give you."
He placed a hand briefly on Rio's shoulder, then stepped back into the rain, his figure slowly swallowed by the darkness.
Rio remained, smoking in silence, rain cascading down his face. The envelope weighed heavily in his hand.
Inside was proof. Proof of betrayal. Proof of destruction. Proof of the reason his father's heart had died long before his body followed.
His storm-gray eyes lowered, burning through the paper as though he could already see the images within.
His fist tightened.
Wrath trembled through him.
But his face stayed still. Cold. Silent.
He smoked one last drag, exhaled slowly, and let the rain wash over him.
The night in Cremont felt darker than ever.
And the rain fell harder.
Rio stood beneath the waiting shed, his cigarette nearly burnt down to the filter. The smoke curled upward, mingling with the misty drizzle that crept in from the side. The sound of the priest's voice still echoed faintly from the church behind him, chanting the last prayers for his father's soul. But Rio wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were locked on the envelope in his hands, the one his father's closest friend had given him.
For a moment, he didn't move. His thumb traced the damp paper's edge, trembling though he tried to steady it. Then, with a slow, almost ritualistic motion, he tore it open.
Inside were photographs.
Rio's heart sank. His fingers hesitated, hovering, as if afraid to touch the truth. But then he forced himself, one by one, to sift through the images.
His mother, Isabela Castellan, smiling, her hand intertwined with another man's.
His mother, dancing in another man's arms, her face radiant in a joy that was not meant for her husband.
His mother, hugging that same man in the way a wife should never embrace anyone but her husband.
Rio's jaw tightened, his breath shallow and uneven. Then his eyes froze upon one final image. Just one glance was enough. The intimacy in that captured moment was undeniable - vile, unbearable. Disgust struck him like a blade to the gut. His hand twitched, and he instantly looked away, clenching his jaw so tightly it hurt. He shoved that particular photo back into the envelope without letting his gaze linger. He didn't need to see more. He had seen enough.
Shaking, Rio forced himself to see the last picture. His three sisters, Alessandra, Marcella, Selene, wrapped around that faceless man, smiling as though he were their father, their protector, their blood. Their betrayal burned deeper than the rain cutting across Rio's skin.
The man's face remained concealed in every frame. A cap pulled low. Sunglasses covering the rest. Even in the intimate photos, his identity was shielded, by shadows, by angle, by chance. In one, the way his mother leaned across him obscured him entirely. Fate itself seemed to mock Rio, keeping the phantom nameless.
Rio felt his entire body seize.
He couldn't breathe.
His fingers crushed the edges of the photos, leaving creases. His vision blurred, not from rain, not from smoke, but from the sting of rage building behind his eyes. He staggered back a step, chest heaving like he'd been punched. His military discipline screamed at him to control it, to breathe, to suppress. But the human inside him, the son, the brother, wanted to tear the world apart.
His breaths turned ragged.
"Inhale, exhale," he whispered to himself, repeating the mantra drilled into him during countless missions. He raised his chin, forcing his lungs to obey, to steady. But his body betrayed him. The air came sharp and fast, too fast, too shallow.
And then he snapped.
Rio's fist shot forward with a roar, colliding against the steel frame of the waiting shed. The sound echoed like a gunshot. Metal dented inward, paint chipped, and the entire structure rattled under the force.
Pain seared through his knuckles, but he didn't stop. He pressed his forehead against the cold steel, his shoulders trembling, fists balled so tightly they bled.
Rain streamed down harder, plastering his hair to his face. The cigarette fell from his lips, its ember hissing against the wet ground.
"I need to kill."
The words slipped out, raw, guttural, whispered like a confession to the storm.
He clenched his teeth, trembling with the unspent violence surging through him. His chest rose and fell in chaotic rhythm, his eyes wild, his soul aflame.
It took everything in him, every ounce of soldier's discipline, to not spiral further. He forced himself into a combat breathing exercise. Inhale for four counts. Hold. Exhale for four counts. Hold. Over and over, as the rain washed the fury from his skin but not from his heart.
Minutes passed. Finally, his pulse began to slow. His breathing steadied. He straightened his back, his expression calm, almost unnervingly blank, though the storm inside him still raged.
Rio looked at the photographs one last time. Betrayal, pain, dishonor, destruction, captured forever on paper.
And then, without hesitation, he slipped them back into the envelope.
He pulled out his lighter, flicked it open, and held the flame to the edge of the paper. The fire caught quickly, devouring the photos in an orange glow. He dropped the burning envelope into a puddle at his feet. The rain hissed against the flames, black smoke curling upward, until nothing remained but ash dissolving into the water.
Rio turned away.
He didn't look back at the church. He didn't look back at the smoldering remnants of the truth. He simply walked forward into the rain, his shadow long and broken under the flickering streetlamps.