Aslan stepped toward Ren, stepping over the crumpled form of his brother, who was now little more than a heap of geriatric terror.
"Thank you, Shiroi Hitsuji," Aslan said, his voice dripping with a grotesque satisfaction. "Your presence here today just secured me the seat of the Baronial House."
Aslan snapped his fingers. Instantly, every agent in the room leveled their short-barrel weapons at Frey. Aslan turned his full attention to Ren, savoring the frantic pulse of his old rival.
"You always did love a good costume, didn't you?" Aslan smirked, gesturing to Ren's expensive suit. "Once, you wore the tattered rags of a low-born soldier to deceive my wife. Now, you play the part of a high-and-mighty business manager."
Ren tilted his head slightly, his smile a thin sheet of ice over a mountain of buried rage. "At least every role I play achieves its objective. Which is more than I can say for the 'loyal brother' act you've been putting on."
The barb struck home. Aslan's face hardened, his aura turning to cold steel.
"A shameful objective," Aslan hissed. "You sold your soul for a vault code and a scrap of paper. A code you earned with a—"
"You're mistaken, Mr. Aslan," Ren interrupted, his voice a steady blade. "I didn't sell my dignity. I merely leased it for a guaranteed result."
Aslan's face flushed—a sign that the verbal strike landed—but it didn't matter now. He had the stage he wanted.
Baron Frey stared at the muzzles surrounding him, realizing he had fallen into a trap far deeper than the one he'd set for Ren. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords were paralyzed by sheer dread.
Aslan didn't give him a second to breathe. He addressed the room with the cold formality of a death warrant. "How do you think the public will react when they hear the Baron was executed by a terrorist at Eye Tower... and the infamous Shiroi Hitsuji was found dying at the scene? Who do you think they'll blame?"
Ren knew the play. Aslan was making him the scapegoat. The White Sheep led to the slaughter.
He didn't waste a heartbeat. Ren's hand snatched the velvet cover from a nearby chair—a remnant of a wasted banquet—and hurled it into Aslan's face, creating a split-second blind spot.
He moved like lightning, lunging for Frey. The Baron was the only living evidence that could dismantle Aslan's coup. But Ren was a fraction of a second too late.
Aslan, driven by pure ego and ancient grudges, had already drawn his custom sidearm. He fired a suppressed round into Frey's skull without a word of warning. It was a calculated psychological blow: Ren had failed to save the victim right in front of his eyes.
Ren's gloved hand touched empty air just as Frey's hot blood sprayed across his leather palms and cheek. The Baron collapsed onto the banquet table with a muffled thud, sending fine china shattering to the floor.
The five agents instantly pivoted, their sights locking onto Ren.
Ren didn't wait for the muzzle flashes. As the first shot rang out, he performed a practiced, acrobatic roll, sliding across the polished marble. He used a heavy circular table as a shield, the silver legs sparking as bullets deflected off them.
As he scrambled behind a concrete pillar, a burst of static hissed through his earpiece. It was Isaac.
"Ren! [static] You've got forty seconds! The coup is... it's happening on every floor! Heavy fire in the other sectors!" Isaac's voice crackled, fighting through frequency interference. "Lockdown... [static]—! Eye Tower is going dark! I'm trying to bypass the signal, but it's only a partial fix!"
Ren exhaled sharply. Lockdown. Trapped in a cage with the wolves.
"He's running!" Vera's voice broke in, taut with tension. "He's leaving the executive suite and heading for the roof. There's a light helicopter waiting for him!"
Ren winced—not just from the news, but from a sudden, stabbing chill in his chest. The alcohol-neutralizing pill he'd taken earlier was hitting his system too fast, triggering a forced, agonizing reset of his muscles. His body felt like it was being rebooted from the inside out. He gritted his teeth, forcing the numbness back.
Aslan was using the remaining agents on Floor 6 as a human wall to stall him. Ren stopped playing defense.
Igniting his focus despite the internal pain, Ren swung a porcelain chair at the first agent's head. As the man staggered, Ren grabbed the edge of a massive table and hurled it like a lethal frisbee toward two others.
He leaped over a buffet table of luxury canapés. The agents advanced cautiously. Ren snatched a thin, silver dinner knife, smashing a porcelain plate in front of him into jagged shards.
He flicked the shards like spinning discs toward the necks of the closest men. Crack! The porcelain shattered against their earpieces and jugulars. They collapsed, their comms dead and their consciousness fading.
"Ren, did you lose your blades?" Vera hissed in his ear.
A third agent fired. Ren used a porcelain chair as a buckler, then delivered a spinning, arching kick that shattered the fourth agent's leg.
"No," Ren whispered, his voice strained from the internal reset. "But I can't use them."
He wanted to end this in seconds with his twin black daggers, but he knew better. A dagger kill would only validate the Higanbana narrative. His blades would stay sleeping this time.
The fifth agent was the fastest. Ren dove under the gunfire, closing the distance until they were chest-to-chest. Using his blood-slicked glove as a blunt instrument, he delivered a precise forearm strike to the man's solar plexus.
"Isaac, give me a limited comm-burst. Guide me to the roof. The elevators are out of the question."
Ren locked the agent's arm, twisted it, and slammed him onto a collapsed table. The remaining men were down—a mess of broken bones and shattered glass. Ren stood amidst the wreckage of the ballroom, chest heaving, his left shoulder beginning to go numb.
"The elevator is still active, but it's a bait," Isaac's voice returned. "Get out of the suite. The north corridor is your only shot. Emergency stairs—expect two to three agents on every landing."
"Good. Make sure they're all armed." Ren's reply left Isaac and Vera in a confused silence.
He moved toward the exit, but his feet stalled in the center of the room.
There, between the shards of crystal and the ruins of a billionaire's dinner, was a pool of blood. Baron Frey's blood—dark, thick, and final. But it was the other red liquid that made Ren's breath hitch.
A spilled glass of red wine had bled across the white marble, mingling with the gore.
The metallic tang of fresh blood mixed with the sweet, acidic rot of alcohol. To Ren, it wasn't just a mess on the floor. It was a visual representation of two different betrayals.
The betrayal he suffered. And the betrayal he committed to survive his youth.
Suddenly, a familiar voice—the man who had sharpened him into a blade—echoed in his mind as if it were yesterday.
"General Aslan's security isn't your problem. The blueprints we need aren't in his office... they're in his private vault."
Ren stood paralyzed. His blood-stained gloves felt like lead. The trauma flooded back, uninvited and suffocating.
GENERAL ASLAN'S ESTATE | TWO YEARS AGO
Inside a temporary safe house near the Merge District lighthouse, a thin moon hung over the bleak Marble Kingdom. Ren, only seventeen—not even old enough to legally hold a weapon—wore a soldier's uniform as his shroud. He sat on a steel chair, mechanically cleaning his blade.
The distorted voice of a man crackled in his ear. "The blueprints are in his private vault, on his young wife's vanity. Use your tools. Use your 'talents.' Get that key."
Ren didn't answer. He just tightened his leather gloves. Force had failed. Lilith, the General's wife, was an unexpected emotional firewall. He realized the only way to that key was through an emotional betrayal.
Late that night, Lilith sat alone on a velvet sofa in the General's lounge. At twenty years old, the boredom of her status and the coldness of her political marriage had aged her soul. Her silk gown pooled on the marble like spilled ink.
Ren stood in the corner, a temporary personal guard. He looked like a marble sculpture: young, rigid, and radiating a cold, dangerous aura.
Lilith sipped her red wine. Her eyes weren't on the fireplace, but on Ren's unnatural stillness.
"You'll freeze to death standing there," she whispered. "I have enough wine here to warm even you."
Ren didn't move. "My superiors forbid alcohol on duty, Madam."
Lilith laughed—a sound like breaking glass. She pointed to the cushion beside her. "So formal. Sit, Soldier. I need someone to break this expensive silence."
Ren analyzed the angle. The General trusted his wife implicitly. She was the only path to the vault. He saw her as an emotional breach that had to be exploited.
Ren approached. He didn't sit. He had one shot. "If you require assistance, Madam, you need only ask."
Lilith's eyes sparked. She exhaled, leaning toward him. The scent of red wine filled his lungs. "Drink with me." She poured a fresh glass.
Ren stared at the liquid. Alcohol was a red line. It dulled the senses. It made you soft
.
"Forgive me, Madam—"
Lilith shoved him back onto the sofa. She wasn't asking. She leaned over him, pinning him against the expensive fabric. "This isn't a suggestion. It's an order. Drink."
Before Ren could react, Lilith took a sip of the wine, then pressed her lips hard against his. She forced the liquid into his mouth, transferring the wine from her body to his.
The cold, acidic metallic taste flooded Ren's senses. It wasn't just a physical invasion; it was a poison that endangered the entire mission. In that split second, the disciplined assassin felt his final line being crossed.
And there was no turning back.