Back when Paul was still alive and John's life felt steady, strange things began to stir inside him. It started subtly—an odd sensation in his eyes, a pull toward focus that warped the world around him.
When John concentrated hard on a single object, the rest of his surroundings seemed to fade into shadow. People and things would glow in colors—blue, red, orange, or white—as if reality itself had been painted by an unseen hand.
The first time it happened was in school. He had been staring at a math equation on the board, concentrating until his head throbbed, when suddenly the vision came alive. Most of the students appeared white, washed-out silhouettes with no particular weight in his life. His friend, who was quietly helping him with an assignment, radiated blue. His teacher, chalk in hand, burned a bright orange. And in the corner of the classroom, the bully—punished and standing apart—was tinted a deep, angry red.
John had recoiled, blinking furiously. His eyes ached for hours afterward, a sharp, burning pain that made him question if he was losing his mind. He told no one, fearing laughter, until at last he confessed to his father.
Paul had been stunned at first, but instead of fear, joy rushed over his face. He leapt up as if the weight of years had suddenly been lifted.
"Really?" Paul exclaimed, his voice breaking with relief. "Finally!"
Then he sat his son down and explained.
"What you saw, John, is something called Hawk Vision. It helps you perceive people based on their behavior and intentions toward you. If an ally is secretly plotting against you, Hawk Vision reveals him in red—an enemy, no matter the mask he wears. Blue means an ally. Orange is reserved for someone of importance—like your teacher. And white… white is everyone else. People with no real weight in your story."
John had listened with wide, unblinking eyes.
"But remember," Paul warned, his voice lowering. "Hawk Vision isn't perfect. It doesn't show absolute truth. It shows what you need to see. If an enemy disguises himself well enough—if you truly believe in him—your eyes may betray you. He will appear blue when he should be red. That mistake could cost you everything."
Paul had smiled then, though the smile carried both pride and sorrow.
"This power runs in our bloodline. Only our family can wield it. Its full potential was mastered by the legendary assassin himself—Hawk. That's why it was renamed in his honor. Before him, it was called Eagle Vision."
At the time, Paul had left much unsaid. The names Assassin and Templar were still mysteries to John, shadows in stories too big for him to grasp. Back then, he hadn't understood what "our bloodline" meant. Now, he knew all too well.
—
In the present, John sat on a bench outside on a busy street, trying to remaster the ability that once came so naturally to him. For two hours he had been forcing his eyes to focus, willing the colors to return.
All he managed was a haze. A weak, blurry shimmer that meant nothing. He tried again, harder, until his vision faltered completely.
"Ah, c'mon!" John growled, his voice breaking through the chatter of the street. Several passersby flinched and gave him wide looks before hurrying away.
John squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them hard until the ache dulled. His voice dropped into a mutter.
"It hurts like hell, man. It always hurts…"
Leaning back against the cool stone wall behind him, he let out a long sigh.
"Maybe I should stop wasting time. Do something more important…"
A sharp edge crept into his tone.
"Like hunting some Templars."
The tablet John had stolen suddenly buzzed in his hands, its glass surface flickering to life. A sharp chime echoed, and a message spilled across the screen.
A voice recording began to play, accompanied by a video. John's heart nearly stopped. The footage showed him—blade in hand, cutting Marcus down in cold blood.
The voice followed, low and commanding, every word heavy with authority:
"Attention. This is a recording of a deadly Assassin. He must be captured alive. He is the one who slew Templar Marcus—your brother. Study his face, his clothes, his voice. Use them as your trail. But beware his strength."
The voice was deep, manly—so steady that John felt a chill crawl up his spine. For a moment, fear pricked at him. But then he thought it through.
If this message was sent to everyone… then they all know I'm here.
He clenched the tablet, forcing himself to breathe steady. Rising to his feet, he muttered under his hood:
"I need to be cautious. If they're ordered to capture me alive, that means they'll hold back… which works in my favor."
He slipped into the streets, tablet in one hand, scanning his surroundings. Every step was careful, his eyes darting across alleyways and rooftops as he tried to retrace the paths in his mind.
Hawk Vision… I need it again.
He focused, closing his eyes for a second, but nothing happened. Not even a spark.
"Why?" he muttered under his breath. "Why did it come to me naturally when I was a child, but now it won't answer me? Am I… doing it wrong? And if so—what exactly?"
Frustration tightened his chest. Then, movement caught the corner of his eye. Two figures emerged from the crowd ahead, their dark uniforms marked with the Cyntera Corp insignia.
John froze.
The men froze too, the instant their eyes locked on the hooded figure.
One was tall, older, his gaze sharp and seasoned. The other, younger and shorter, shifted nervously at his side.
Mark and Luke.