"Pops…?" Noel asked.
Pops gave a quizzical smile.
"Well… the rifle I usually used is rusty and barely usable, but I didn't want to cancel today's plans," he said.
"So… you bought this weapon?" Noel's voice rose, disbelief clear.
"Well… I already had it," Pops replied calmly.
"What?!" Noel exclaimed. "Pops… who are you, and what's with this? A normal citizen can't have this thing!"
Pops' tone dropped to something quieter, almost reflective. "I've had this with me for a very long time… it's just part of my past, son."
Noel spoke a little louder. "So… explain, Pops. What is this? And what's your past?"
With a calm smile, Pops replied, "Listen, son… if I asked you who you are, or what your past is, would you really know?"
Noel fell silent, thinking.
"Does it matter who you are today? Does your past really affect who you are now?" Pops continued.
Noel didn't answer aloud, but he understood what his grandfather was trying to tell him.
"I left my past behind a long time ago," Pops said softly.
"And it doesn't matter what it is today. I am simply the caretaker of a boy with a cute little smile," he added, smiling lightly.
Noel smiled in return, understanding the weight of his grandfather's words—words that carried meaning, responsibility, and a quiet strength.
Then, Pops picked up the weapon carefully and said, his voice firm,
"Never let yesterday's shadows make you the Phantom of the Past."
..
…
Elsewhere-
At a place cloaked in shadow, the air was thick with smoke and tension.
The air was heavy with tension — all the local bosses stood in silence, waiting.
No one dared to speak.
No one dared to speak.
Then, footsteps.
Slow. Steady. Sharp.
A man entered.
An eye-patch covering one eye, a faint scar tracing down his cheek.
His presence alone was enough to make the air freeze.
He sat at the head of the long table.
A servant quietly lit his cigar.
No one breathed until he took the first drag
No one dared to speak.
Then, footsteps.
Slow. Steady. Sharp.
A man entered.
An eye-patch covering one eye, a faint scar tracing down his cheek.
His presence alone was enough to make the air freeze.
He sat at the head of the long table.
A servant quietly lit his cigar.
No one breathed until he took the first drag
"It's been a while since you came to visit us, Marco sir," one of them finally said, voice trembling slightly.
Marco exhaled a trail of smoke — calm, unblinking.
"Hmm."
Another spoke up nervously.
"I think it's time to begin, sir Marco."
Marco's eye drifted toward him, cold and empty.
"Begin, then."
The meeting started. Someone tried to speak about declining profits, about the system not working like it used to.
Marco cut him off with a soft laugh — too soft.
"My system isn't working?" he repeated, voice calm but soaked in threat.
"You think I don't know that?"
"Sir, we've been trying—"
"You think trying matters?" His tone dropped lower, colder.
He placed his cigar gently on the ashtray, leaned forward.
"You know why things usedto run perfectly four years ago?"
No one answered.
"Because the people back then knew what fear meant."
He looked around the room — every man's head lowered instantly.
"They were Efficient. Deadly."
"And unlike you useless dogs, they knew how to finish a job."
One of the men stammered, "W-We apologize, sir—"
"Apologies don't raise the dead."
The room went silent.
Marco's smile faded into stillness.
Then he said, almost lazily, "Speaking of the dead…"
He turned his gaze toward one of the bosses.
"Sam."
Sam froze.
Marco slid a gun across the table — metal scraping against wood.
"Want to tell me why my money didn't reach me last month?"
Sam's face turned pale. "S-Sir, I can explain"
"You kept it."
Marco stood, unhurried, eyes locked on him.
"You planned something. With that Viren organization, wasn't it?"
"N-No, sir, I—"
Bang!.
"I hate traitors-"
The shot echoed through the room like thunder in a coffin.
Blood sprayed across the table.
No one moved.
Not even Marco.
He calmly picked up his cigar again, took a drag, and said softly,
"Now you may all sit."
The sound of chairs scraping echoed weakly in the suffocating quiet.
After a long silence, Viktor — the boss under Marco — spoke up carefully.
"Sir… about what you said earlier. Four years ago, you had men… who were perfect. Who were they?"
Marco's single visible eye drifted toward him.
"You're quite curious about things that don't concern you."
"My apologies, sir—"
Marco smirked slightly — not out of amusement, but like a predator humoring its prey.
"Four years ago… there was a boy. A teenager. Stronger, faster, sharper than any man I've seen. He was… gifted."
He paused. His tone softened, almost nostalgic — but it made everyone more uneasy.
"He was the son of someone I respected. And when he worked for me… he never failed. One sword, one gun — that's all he ever needed."
"What happened to him?" Viktor asked quietly.
Marco took a slow drag of his cigar.
Smoke curled around his expressionless face.
"…He died."
He laughed faintly, the sound dry and empty.
"A tragic death. Hah."
The other men forced nervous chuckles — but Marco's eye snapped toward them.
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
"What was his name ?" Viktor asked curiously .
"Stop asking questions and do your job," he said suddenly, voice slicing the air.
Viktor nodded quickly and turned to leave.
As he reached the door, Marco spoke one last time, voice calm — too calm.
"His name was…..
..
Kaeler."
Elsewhere-
Eira sat on her bed, phone pressed to her ear.
"So… did you meet him?" a voice asked.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "It was strange."
"Strange?"
"He doesn't know anything even about Nightshade."
"…He's not him, Eira."
"I know," she whispered. "But for a second… it felt like he was."
.....
......