John retraced his steps through the narrow, damp tunnel, the dim echoes of his boots following him like ghosts. When he reached the ladder, he gripped its cold metal rungs and climbed, the faint hum of the city growing louder with each pull upward.
He pushed the hatch open and stepped out into the open world. Cool air hit his face. Behind him loomed the great walls of Son of York — colossal, unmoving, their shadows blanketing the ground in a calm, consuming dark.
Ahead stretched the city.
A thousand windows burned with light, stacked upon each other in restless rows. The noise came in waves — cars honking, people arguing, laughter breaking somewhere far off. The first line of buildings began just beyond the highway, maybe seven meters away.
John stood there, watching it all for a long moment. Then his eyes drifted to the right — to the northwestern tower. The Templar Tower.
He sighed.
"The explosives I need… they're not easy to find," he muttered under his breath. "Getting them through normal means? Impossible."
His gaze lingered on the tower, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
My old friend… he has those.
Mike.
They had met back in school — two boys from very different corners of life. John had been the quiet one, the orphan. His mother dead, his father long gone, he'd been left hollow, small, and alone. The kind of kid that made an easy target.
Every day, the bullies came — fists, insults, laughter. Orphan.Country kid. Words that stung worse than the blows.
Until the day Mike stepped in.
He fought them off without hesitation, not for glory, just because someone had to. From that day on, John was never alone again.
They took on the world together — two boys against everything. Fights, laughter, trouble, bruises — it all became their language. Over time, Mike became the brother John never had.
And no one could separate them.
Unless one of them chose to.
That summer sunset still lived somewhere deep in John's mind.
The two of them had been cornered again — same bullies, only this time they brought friends. Six, maybe seven of them, big kids with the kind of smiles that came from knowing they'd already won.
Mike fought anyway. He always did. But there were too many.
John remembered the shouts, the fists, the dust kicked up under a burning dawn. Then a splash — sudden, final. Mike had been shoved into the river that cut behind the schoolyard.
John just stood there. Frozen.
They never touched him. Not once. Maybe they pitied him — the quiet orphan who never fought back. Maybe they knew he wasn't worth it. But as Mike dragged himself out of the water, dripping and bruised, John saw his face.
It wasn't pain that filled it. It was fury.
Mike's eyes burned as he stared at the boys walking away. His voice tore through the still air.
"You'll pay for this!"
It wasn't just a threat. It was a promise, and it carried for what felt like miles.
When the echoes faded, the two of them walked home in silence. Neither could look at the other.
John went back to the orphanage. Mike went to his house.
And then—nothing.
Mike vanished. He stopped coming to school. Nobody saw him in the streets. No word, no goodbye. Just gone.
John tried to fill the space his friend left behind with fists and grit. He learned to fight, to defend himself, to survive. But it didn't erase the feeling that he'd somehow caused it.
In his mind, Mike hadn't disappeared because of the bullies. He'd disappeared because of him. Because John had stood there and done nothing. Because his weakness had shamed the only person who ever stood up for him.
The guilt stayed. Years passed, and it stayed — like a quiet shadow that refused to leave his side.
Years drifted by. The memory dulled around the edges but never left him. Then, one day, a letter arrived at the orphanage.
The handwriting was rough, uneven — but the name signed at the bottom froze John in place.
Mike.
"Hey, uh… it's Mike. I'll make it quick. I'm not a good writer.
So, I… own a gang now!
P.S. Don't show this letter to anyone.
We're based in the southeastern corner of the city. It looks like a normal residential building, but it's connected to a big basement underneath. If you go to the far-left side, there's a door — a garage next to it. Knock and say: 'chp 236.'
I have something to say.
Bye."
John read the letter again and again, trying to hear Mike's voice in it. He couldn't. It felt like words written by someone else — someone older, harder.
He wondered how Mike had gone from a furious boy in the river to the leader of a gang hidden under a city block. But the guilt was stronger than the curiosity. It told him he didn't deserve to ask.
He never went.
Whatever Mike had wanted to say, it would remain unsaid. John buried the letter somewhere in his drawer and pretended it didn't exist. Still, the guilt stayed, wearing new shapes as the years piled up.
And now, standing outside the Templar tower, he was forcing himself to dig that memory back up — not for closure, not for friendship, but for a deal.
Whatever warmth once existed between them had long turned to ash.
To John, Mike was no longer a friend.
He was an old contact — a man from a past he wished he could forget, whom he now had to face for business. Nothing more.
John walked toward the east-southern corner of the city — the only district untouched by the Cyntera Corporation towers. It was exactly where Mike had written about all those years ago.
Every step felt longer than the last, each intersection like a stretch of time that refused to close. He kept moving, quiet and steady. The sun hung directly above him, sharp and merciless — midday.
People on the streets glanced at him the way they'd glance at anyone else — a quick, ordinary look before moving on. The grey outfit, the hood, the quiet weight he carried… none of it drew real attention anymore. After the protest, something had shifted. People started seeing him as one of their own — a friend, or at least someone not worth fearing.
Only the police still remembered his name. Even then, it was just ink on an old file, a ghost case no one wanted to reopen. Captain Edward's attempt had ended badly enough to make the rest think twice. So they left him be.
John's luck held; he rarely crossed paths with officers anyway. Most days he simply walked under the clear sky, hood up, grey uniform wrapped around him. The long sword at his hip stayed mostly hidden beneath his waist cloak, its handle barely showing. The dagger on his back, though — that one stood out. A quiet reminder of who he was. The one who had helped spark the protest that changed everything.
By the time he arrived, his body was slick with sweat, his nerves drawn thin, his face locked in a still, unreadable expression.
He recognized the place immediately. Just as the letter had said:
"It looks like a normal residential building, but it's connected to a big basement underneath. If you go to the far-left side, there's a door — a garage next to it. Knock and say: 'chp 236.' "
He found it easily enough — the far-left side of a weathered residential block, a narrow garage beside a single metal door. Above him, the great walls of Son of York cast long shadows over the corner, swallowing the light.
John climbed the small set of stairs, exhaled once, and knocked.
From within came laughter — sharp, crude, the kind that reeked of street life. Then a voice barked through a small slit in the door. A pair of eyes stared out at him.
"What do you want?"
John's reply was simple, flat.
"Chp 236. I've come to see Mike."
The man on the other side paused. John could see the faint reflection of himself in those eyes — hood drawn low, assassin's uniform catching the faint daylight, dagger resting at his back and a handle barely seen on his hip.
After a moment, the man grunted and unlatched the door.
"Come in."
John stepped forward. A wave of heat met him immediately. The air was thick — smoky, humid, almost suffocating. The man who'd opened the door wore a black mask under his nose, revealing only his tanned skin and sharp stare.
"What a crazy one aren't you? , haven't seen such in a while," he muttered as John passed. "Maybe never. You sure Mike wants to meet a weirdo like you?"
John glanced sideways without stopping.
"We'll see."
The "basement" turned out to be something else entirely — an underground maze shaped like an apartment complex. Narrow halls, low ceilings, walls stained by years of smoke and oil.
At the entrance, a larger room split into three separate corridors, each leading deeper into the structure. John stood still for a moment, his hand brushing the hilt at his side, then closed his eyes and activated Hawk Vision.
The world dimmed in an instant.
Figures flared into sight through the walls — dozens of them, white silhouettes scattered across the building, none relevant to his purpose. But at the far end of the main hallway ahead, one stood out — yellow. Important.
He focused on it.
If that was Mike, it made sense. But the color told him everything: not blue. Not friend.
He wasn't surprised.
John followed the direction of the golden silhouette, taking the middle hallway. With every step, the air grew thicker—the light dimmed, laughter warped into a crude chorus, and the scent of smoke clung to his throat. Shadows sprawled across the floor like stains. People lay slumped in the corners, clutching empty bottles, half-asleep, half-alive.
A flicker of disgust passed through him. How could Mike accept all of this?
At the hallway's end, a thin curtain blocked his path. From behind it, flashes of color pulsed—reds, greens, blues—like the dying breath of some underground club. The muffled noise on the other side was too loud, too alive for a place that should have been dead.
He took a breath, then pulled the curtain aside.
The room beyond was sprawling, dim, and drowning in haze. Light spilled from cheap ceiling fixtures that flickered with an uneven rhythm. Smoke hung heavy in the air, rolling above the crowd like fog over a graveyard. Dozens of people sat hunched at tables, laughing, shouting, staring blankly into space. Cigarettes burned to their ends, crushed, then lit again. The smell of alcohol mixed with sweat and something sour.
John stood still for a moment, watching the ruin unfold in slow motion. It was chaos, yet somehow routine—decay turned into daily life.
Then he noticed someone in the far corner, slumped over, sleeves rolled up. A syringe dangled from his limp fingers.
John's jaw tightened. "God… Mike, what did you walk into?"
He took a step forward, the noise around him fading to a low hum. I need to find him.
John's eyes glowed faintly as he reactivated his Hawk Vision. The golden silhouette pulsed again—closer this time, right at the center of the room. A man leaned over a wide table, both hands pressed against its surface. His outline shimmered gold against the grey haze.
John's breath hitched. His body moved on its own, step by step, cutting through the crowd without a word. The noise blurred into a dull roar.
Then—impact.
A man stumbled into him, reeking of alcohol. "You punk!" the drunk snarled, swinging a clumsy punch.
John shifted aside, effortless, and pushed him away with one hand. The man crashed into a couple of others, sending a few bottles rolling. Chairs screeched. Conversations died mid-sentence.
A silence rippled across the room.
The drunk blinked in confusion before his anger reignited. He staggered upright and pointed at John. "You bastard, you're done for!"
John didn't flinch. His stance was calm, neutral. He could end this in a blink—but something else drew his attention.
The golden figure at the table had turned.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, posture steady but eyes hollowed by exhaustion. His dark hair hung loose and messy, and a bronze medallion glinted against his chest. The kind of medallion designed to hide something inside.
The man stepped forward. "You dare fight here?" His voice cut through the noise—calm, heavy, carrying authority.
The drunk froze mid-motion. "But, Mike! He started it! He pushed me!"
Mike didn't even blink. "You think I'm a child? You swung first. He only defended himself."
The drunk tried to speak, but Mike's expression hardened. "You broke the rule. No fighting in my building." His tone dropped, sharp as a blade. "So get the hell out."
Two masked men appeared from the smoky edges of the room, dragging the drunk away. The murmurs began to rise again, but John barely heard them. Mike turned to face him, eyes scanning under the hood.
"What can I do for you?" he asked. His voice was flat, the kind that came from long nights and longer regrets. "Don't think I've seen you before."
John hesitated. "I'm… someone you know. I came to talk about it."
Mike raised a brow. "Know you?"
"You might know me as John," he said quietly. "John the Weak. From the orphanage."
Mike froze. For a second, disbelief cracked through his tired face. Then, a small, disbelieving laugh escaped him. "No way… Don't joke about that."
"I have proof," John replied. His tone carried no jest.
The amusement faded. Mike's expression hardened. "Let's talk somewhere private."
They moved to a small storage room at the edge of the hall. Boxes lined the walls, dust gathering in corners. Mike shut the door and locked it with a quiet click.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Mike said, keeping his back to him. "But pretending to be him? That's a mistake."
"I'm not pretending," John said.
"Yeah?" Mike turned, eyes narrowing as he studied him. "Then why call yourself John the Weak? You think that's funny?"
"That's what everyone used to call me, remember?"
Mike blinked. For a second, the mask slipped. "Ok, now. Where did you get that name?" he asked, voice sharp. "Who told you that?"
John's gaze held steady. "No one told me. I AM him."
Mike shook his head, a bitter laugh forcing its way out. "You're full of it. John wasn't weak. He was stupid sometimes, sure, trusted the wrong people, but weak? Never... He was just naïve."
John's eyes softened. "You really believe that?"
"I know that." Mike stepped closer, anger building with each word. "You don't talk like him. You don't move like him. Hell, you don't even look like him. So tell me—what's your game? You trying to scam me? Or just piss me off?"
"I told you the truth," John said. "You just don't want to hear it."
Mike's jaw tightened. "You should've picked another name, stranger. That one's off limits."
His hand slipped into his pocket. When he turned, a dull glint of metal caught the light—knuckle dusters sliding over his fingers.
"Bringing up his name in the first place…" he said, lifting his eyes at last, cold and steady. "…was a bad idea."
…Mike took John's words about his old friend as an insult, disrespect. So, to protect his honor he began this fight against the insulter-the actual John…
He lunged.
Mike moved like a man who'd practiced violence until it became reflex. He dropped into a boxing stance and unleashed a flurry — fists looping fast, brutal, absolute. The brass knuckles on his hands gave every blow the promise of broken bone.
John read the first few attacks and shifted out of range, ducking and rolling with the rhythm of the room. He couldn't land anything against Mike, but he also couldn't dodge forever. The space between them was shrinking.
"How the hell do you know about John!" Mike spat between punches. "Who even are you?" Rage tightened his voice, carved anger into his face. "Ah — I get it! One of those kids who used to fight me and John, come back to exploit the gang!"
John tried to answer through the storm. "Mike, stop! It's really me — I can prove it!" he shouted.
A fist rose and clipped the air near John's temple. He snatched his arms up and parried with his forearms as Mike's blows cracked the space between them. Their faces were inches apart. John could see the raw, hot fury in Mike's eyes.
"There's nothing to prove!" Mike barked. "How can you prove anything? You — look at you! That hooded uniform — you could be a spy for the Night Wolves sent to kill me!"
Mike's next move was a savage kick into John's ribs. John folded, stumbling back until his shoulders met a stack of boxes. They toppled in a wooden cascade, striking his head and sending splinters raining down.
For a breath the room swam. Mike stepped back, chest heaving. "John never called himself weak — so you can't either!" he snarled, voice raw.
Under the collapsing boxes John lay and watched him. The old John — the boy who swallowed pride and never admitted failure — would have clenched his jaw and taken every hit without complaint. The man standing up now was different: he knew his weakness, named it, lived with it. His promise to someone long gone had kept him moving. Pride no longer required silence.
He pushed through the wooden ruin and rose slowly, every movement measured. When he pulled the hood down he revealed a split forehead, blood tracing a dark line across his temple and the right side of his eye. The scar along his cheek caught the dim light; it framed him as something Mike recognized and, for a blink, admired.
A flicker of awe crossed Mike's face, quickly masked by habit. He snapped back into stance, knuckles up, waiting. John's eyes widened. Mike's too out of control — even the one thing only John could use won't reach him now, he thought. He's blind with it.
John unhooked the long sword at his waist and drew it in one steady motion. He held the hilt with both hands, raised the blade until it hovered over his head, the point aimed at Mike but not cutting.
"I won't hurt you," he mouthed, more to himself than to the man before him. "But I will have to neutralize you."
A memory stabbed him — Edward's blood, the way it had run. The image sharpened his resolve. He breathed low. "I won't fail like last time. I won't kill an innocent." The vow was small, private, ironclad. Then he waited for Mike's next move.
They stood on opposite sides of the room.
The air between them felt thick, almost visible—like dust caught in fading light.
Mike's fists were raised, a human wall.
John's sword hung above his head, its tip trembling ever so slightly. He looked at Mike the way someone looks at an old photograph—half wonder, half ache.
"Listen… Mike," John said, his voice cracked at the edges. "I know. A lot has changed. Too much, maybe. You barely notice me now, and I barely notice you. But our past—our memories—they still hold us together."
He took a breath. "I am that same shy kid you met back in school. The one you tried to protect. The kid who called you a friend. We went different ways, I know. But I came back. Mike—"
"Shut up."
The words hit harder than any punch. Mike's arms shook, but he didn't drop his guard.
"It hurts, John. I left him. I left him with deliberate will!. He must hate me for it. There's no way he'd come back." His breathing quickened, turning ragged. "I don't know who you are, what you are, or how you know about John—but I don't care."
Silence filled the room, that kind that hums like a wire about to snap.
Then Mike's voice hardened. "You can leave now… or we can end this the hard way. But if you stay stubborn, know this—" His jaw clenched. "I have too much to lose. So I will kill you."
John lowered his sword slightly. His eyes softened, but there was steel beneath.
"And I have nothing left to lose. Just one promise… the only thing keeping me from becoming hollow. That promise keeps me standing. For my father's honor, I have to stay. But I won't kill you."
Their words hung there—two truths that couldn't exist in the same world.
Then came Mike's whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet:
"Then… prepare yourself."
He lunged.
The first punch was like thunder.
Then another. And another. Each blow cracked the air and made John's arms jolt under the weight.
John blocked with precision, the blade sliding between knuckle dusters, sparks lighting the dim room. He wasn't fighting to win—he was fighting to protect.
If I can just hold out, he thought, maybe he'll stop. Maybe he'll listen.
But when he caught a glimpse of Mike's face, the thought faltered.
Mike's eyes were wet. His lips twisted into something between a scream and a sob.
Every hit carried a piece of memory—guilt for leaving, anger at himself, grief that had nowhere to go but outward.
Mike's knuckle dusters began to crack. Each impact left a fracture, thin white lines spreading through the steel like veins.
He didn't notice. He just kept swinging, lost inside his own storm.
Then at last, it shattered.
Metal shards fell between them with a sound like breaking glass.
Then, to avoid further harm threw the weapon aside and stepped forward.
One heartbeat later, he was inside Mike's guard, arms wrapping around him—not to strike, but to stop.
They crashed to the ground, John on top, locking Mike's arms beneath him. His biceps pressed against Mike's throat, but the hold was measured, careful. Not a choke. A restraint.
Mike struggled once, twice… then froze.
He could still breathe. He could still feel the warmth of the man above him—the same kid from years ago, who once stood behind him, trusting him to lead.
And for the first time since the fight began, the room went quiet.
John's voice cut through the stale smoke like a thrown stone. "Listen, Mike. No matter what you tell yourself, no matter how many times you deny it—your past doesn't let go. I am John. Your old friend. I came to find you."
"Liar!" Mike shouted. The single word tore the air. He sounded older than the boy John remembered, the edges of his voice roughened by years and hard choices. "Why would you come here? It's been over a decade since I let go of you—since the orphanage. I—" His breath hitched. "I came back because I trusted my fate. Just like you said. If not for you—if not for your words—I would have died long ago. The temple, right in the first day I was here—slipping off a ledge. I should've been gone. I'm here because of you."
John waited through the jumble of words; he let them fall into the room. When Mike asked, puzzled and small, "What did you just say? Had faith… in your fate?" John shouted, certain and raw, "Yes. Exactly."
For a moment Mike looked as if someone else had spoken his name. "John…?" he breathed.
John released him and stepped back. Mike slumped up, dazed, watching John stand and resheath the his sword he threw to the ground. The building's light caught his face—haggard, incredulous, washed in the gray pallor of cigarette smoke. "You," Mike murmured, "were the only one I ever talked to about faith."
John's anger rose like something long rehearsed. Throughout this fight— every ignored massage, every unanswered call for remembrance pressed in on him. His breath steadied, but his eyes didn't.
"You didn't listen," he said. "Everything I said, You Just didn't care! Rather than trying to believe you decided to fight?!."
Mike flinched as if struck. His hand trembled when he reached forward, hesitant, and wiped a thin line of blood from John's forehead. The gesture was old muscle memory—care for a friend, not a stranger—but it landed wrong now, out of place.
"I… I don't recognize John in you anymore," Mike said quietly. "You sound like someone else wearing his name."
John stepped back, jaw tight. "And I don't recognize you either." He stared at Mike's tired eyes and asked "What is this place? A black market? A nest for scavengers?"
Mike's shoulders sagged. "I—… I had to. "I had to survive, keep the gang going. You—… You don't know what I have been through." I had to keep everyone pleased.
"By selling guns? Running drugs?" John shot back. His tone turned from disbelief to something harsher. "You built a cesspool and called it survival. AND the fun fact is that I ALL belongs to you, right?!"
Mike's silence stretched. Then, after a long pause: "Yes, you're right. It belongs to me."
John's nostrils flared. For a moment he looked ready to walk away. Instead, he exhaled—slow, cold, deliberate. "Good. Then you can help me."
Mike blinked. "Help you?"
"I need explosives."
Mike barked a short, humorless laugh. "Explosives?" His confusion gave way to disbelief. "You walk in after ten years—ten years—and ask me for bombs? That's what this is about?"
"I didn't come to trade memories," John said, voice flat. "You're the only one who can get what I need. Lead the way."
Mike stared at him, the edges of old friendship grinding against the reality in front of him. He wanted to say something that would stop John—some reminder of the boys they'd been. But John's face was closed off, unreadable, all mission.
At last, Mike turned away. "Fine," he muttered. "Follow me."
They stepped into the main hall. Conversations dimmed, eyes followed. The air was thick with smoke and curiosity. Mike guided him to a scarred oak table and began laying out the tools of his trade: rifles, pistols, stacks of ammo boxes, each one smelling faintly of metal and oil.
"This is what the world's worth now," Mike said, bitterly. "Pick your poison."
John didn't look at the guns. "Explosives strong enough to bring down a tower's foundation."
Mike gave him a look that was half warning, half awe. "That's not a toy. You're talking about demolition-grade C4." He lifted two dull-gray packs. "These will chew through concrete like paper. Remote-triggered."
"How does it work?" John asked, clinical.
Mike's voice went mechanical, businesslike. "Plant them, walk away, press the button. You won't have time to pray if you're close."
"How much?"
Mike hesitated. Then the merchant mask slid back on. "Five hundred each."
John drummed his fingers once on the wood. "I'll be back with the cash in an hour."
Mike frowned. "You serious?"
"Dead."
John turned toward the door, then paused. "And clean this place up. You used to have standards."
The words hung between them like a verdict. Then he was gone, swallowed by the smoke.
Mike stood there until the silence felt heavier than the walls. Then his knees buckled. He pressed both hands to his face, a laugh tearing through that sounded more like a sob. "He came back just to buy bombs," he whispered. "Of course he did."
Outside, John leaned against the cracked brick, chest heaving. The sunlight hit him in the eyes, too bright for the day he'd just lived.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," he muttered. "He was supposed to be better than me."
For a long time he just breathed, fighting the tremor in his hands. Then the thought came—the one that always found him when the smoke cleared: You kill too.
The truth steadied him. He exhaled through his teeth and started counting the cash he didn't yet have, running the numbers in his head. A thousand dollars to bring down a tower. He'd find a way. He always did.
The admission steadied him. He let out a slower breath and counted the money in his head: a thousand dollars. A thousand to bring down concrete. Where would he get it? He lay on the pavement and did what he always did in a fix—measure the difficulty, and then start figuring ways to break it.
He kept laying there…with his forehead still split…bleeding.
***
Mike's first reflex was to see John as an intruder—an old face turned threat. He'd spent years learning to read danger in smiles and knives, and this felt no different. Believing otherwise would mean reopening something he'd long buried. Yet beneath the instinct to fight, a slower recognition worked its way through him. The edge he'd built around his life began to soften. All because of John's unexpected come back.
What he wanted was simple, though he'd never admit it: words, an explanation, something to anchor this sudden return. Maybe even forgiveness. But the moment offered none of that.
John had already sealed himself off. The years had taught him that some bonds rot quietly, and that guilt is easier carried than spoken. In Mike he saw the cost of time—what was lost, and what could no longer be fixed. So he spoke only in necessities, not sentiment. Transactions were safer than memories.
Mike, caught between disbelief and regret, could barely find a shape for his thoughts. John's blunt request had left him reeling—part anger, part relief, all confusion. Each man wanted something the other couldn't give: Mike sought understanding, John sought distance.
What the moment needed was a single conversation to bridge a decade, but neither reached for it. Instead they drifted into the only language left between them—business and silence, the two currencies of old friends who no longer knew how to speak.