The Evans family had once stood among the proudest names in Son of York—nobles of vast industry and immense wealth. Some even claimed that Conrad, the city's chief himself, carried their bloodline. But that legacy ended in smoke and ash the night the Evans mansion burned to the ground, taking its owners with it.
Now, the empire was gone. All that remained was a hollow carcass of a home—charred beams, grey walls, and the whisper of ghosts lingering on the east side of the city.
Yet legends refused to die. People still spoke of treasure buried within those ruins—gold enough to feed families for years. The Evans were known for their "heavy pockets," after all. Miserly to the end, they never donated a coin to charity. It wasn't hard for the desperate and the curious to imagine that their fortune had been hidden somewhere inside that doomed house.
And tonight, John was among those curious souls.
He stood before the mansion—a two-story skeleton wrapped in shadow, its walls warped and dark from the fire. The air hung thick, as if even the city's smog didn't dare breathe here. The crumbling fence around the property groaned under his weight as he climbed over and landed softly on the other side.
The garden greeted him first—if it could still be called that. Dead roots and colorless weeds tangled around broken stone paths. At the center stood an old well, its mouth yawning open to the underground sewers of Son of York.
John's eyes lingered on it. The silence around it felt unnatural, like an area intrusive thought pressing against the back of his mind. Scratching the bandaged cut on his forehead, he murmured under his breath, half amused, half tired.
"Took me long enough to figure out where to get the money. Guess being a treasure hunter does pay off. Money required for Mike's explosives will be found here."
He stepped past the well, each footfall muffled by the dead soil. The mansion loomed above him as he climbed the cracked stone stairs, every step heavier than the last.
At the top, the door waited—blackened, warped, and half-hinged. John pressed his hand against it and pushed.
The hinges screamed. The sound ripped through the hollow halls and echoed deep into the mansion's ribs.
He was inside.
Before John stretched a vast entrance hall. On either side, tall double doors opened into the mansion's left and right wings. Above him hung a half-melted chandelier, its warped metal arms sprawling across the ceiling like the skeleton of something once grand. A wide staircase stood ahead, its wooden steps rotted and punctured with holes. Beyond it waited another door, sealed in shadow.
He didn't rush. He never did. If the treasure was here, it wouldn't be lying in plain sight. It would be buried somewhere deep, hidden by pride and greed. So, methodically, he began his search—turning first toward the left door and stepping into a long corridor lined with rooms on both sides.
One by one, he entered them all. The rooms were hollow—beds collapsed, wallpaper eaten by ash, portraits blackened past recognition. Still, he checked every corner, his footsteps steady, deliberate.
But as he worked, his mind slipped elsewhere.
He was no longer in the mansion. He was home—sitting on a small bed beside his mother. Her breathing rasped through the quiet. John was crying.
"Don't cry, dear," she whispered, brushing his cheek with a trembling hand. Then came the coughing again—violent, endless. For a moment she smiled through it, her eyes searching his, before they filled with tears of their own. She covered her mouth and murmured between gasps, "Paul… dear… why? Where are you?"
The coughing worsened. John panicked and bolted from the room, his feet hitting the dim hallway hard.
A silhouette stood at the far end. Familiar. Cloaked, hooded, cape trailing like smoke.
For an instant, relief bloomed in him—then anger drowned it out. He clenched his fists, stormed forward, and the figure dissolved into dust as he passed.
Outside, the sky was grey. The world had gone quiet. Behind the fence, in the garden, Lara sat on the grass. She saw him running and stood at once.
"What happened? Is she okay?"
"It's happening again!" he shouted. "Where's Mr. Ben?"
"I'll get him!" she said, sprinting inside.
Moments later Ben appeared, half-buttoned coat, medicine box clutched under his arm.
"Is she coughing again?"
"Yes! Please—go!"
Ben nodded and ran toward the house. John waited in the yard, his knees weak, his hands shaking. Lara touched his shoulder gently.
"She'll be okay."
He turned to her, voice breaking.
"What if she's not?"
She wasn't.
That day, John's mother died.
The police came. Papers followed. Ben tried to adopt him, but the court refused—one fatal mistake in his past as a surgeon had sealed his fate. John was sent to Son of York's orphanage. There he met Mike. And life, somehow, went on.
When the memory faded, John stood again in the mansion's entrance hall. A tear slid down his cheek and fell onto the dusty boards below. He wiped it away with his sleeve and steadied his gaze.
"Enough mourning the past," he muttered. "I've already searched both wings… only the room above the stairs is left."
He drew a slow breath and began to climb.
John eventually reached the old double doors at the end of the hall. He pushed them open, and the cracked hinges shrieked across the entire room.
Inside lay what once must have been a grand bedroom: a double-sized bed sagging under ash, a bookshelf half-collapsed against the wall, several chests scattered in the corners, and—on the far side—another door.
Above the bed hung a picture frame. The image was warped by smoke and heat, a dark silhouette of three figures standing together. A family, most likely. In the lower corner of the canvas, the words Evans Family – 10th Anniversary clung to the burned fabric.
John searched the room just as he had the rest—under the bed, inside every chest, behind broken furniture. Nothing. Only the brittle remains of clothing that disintegrated at his touch.
Then a sound shattered the stillness. A door slamming open downstairs. Heavy footsteps—several pairs—rushed into the entrance hall.
John froze.
What?
More footsteps. Voices.
"Could it be the police? Guards?" he whispered to himself, pulse rising. "I can't be seen."
He darted to the smaller door in the corner and slipped inside, locking it behind him. The room was narrow and cramped—a changing room for dressing and undressing. Barely enough space for a person to turn around.
From beyond the walls came a man's voice, loud and commanding, echoing up the stairwell:
"Alright, you two check the wings. I'll go up."
John's breath caught. Whoever it was—he was coming straight for this room.
In a flash of desperation, John activated his Hawk Vision. The colors of the world bled into pale outlines. Behind the walls, faint silhouettes appeared… white. Strangers—just unrelated men. Still dangerous. Still close.
Footsteps thudded toward the door.
John spun, searching for anywhere—anywhere—to hide. His gaze landed on a tall clothing shelf. He pulled it open and stepped inside, expecting darkness and tight walls and the smell of old fabric.
But the floor vanished beneath him.
The shelf wasn't a shelf at all. It opened into empty space—a hollow void.
John fell, swallowed by a dark abyss.
The sudden jolt of the fall ripped a scream from John's throat.
He couldn't see—nothing but darkness, thick and endless. The rush of air tore at his ears.
"What's going on?! Am I falling?!" The thought came out in panic, his mind scrambling for sense.
On instinct, he activated his Hawk Vision.
The world shifted. Out of the blackness, faint orange lines began to appear—long ropes glowing in his sight, stretching around him in every direction. For a moment he froze, disbelieving. Then it clicked. They were close. They could save him.
He didn't care how they got there or why. He lunged.
His hands caught one of the ropes, its surface rough and cold. The jolt nearly tore his arms from their sockets. He grabbed another, clinging on with everything he had.
They were part-metal, ancient, but still held strong. The wind lashed his face, making his whole body shudder. The speed began to slow—but not by much. His palms screamed with pain. The gloves started to rip apart, threads giving way. Then came the sting: warm blood spreading across his hands, streaking the metallic ropes red.
Still, he held on. His teeth clenched, tears forced from his eyes—not from fear, but from pain.
The world below was rising fast. The air thickened. He braced himself.
Then impact.
His body hit the ground hard, spinning before coming to rest in a wide, empty chamber. The sound of his fall echoed, then faded into a heavy silence. He lay there, unmoving, chest heaving. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat rang in his ears.
For five long minutes, John didn't rise. He just stared into the void above, trying to process what had just happened. He was alive—that much he could tell. Barely.
A soft breeze whispered through the hollow space, the only sound in that eerie stillness. High above, a faint shaft of light spilled through the open doorway he'd fallen from. It illuminated what lay far below: the broken remains of an elevator.
The old machine lay twisted and half-buried in dust, its once-polished frame split open like a carcass. Thick ropes hung down from the ceiling, the same ones John had clung to—now frayed and dripping with his blood.
Each drop fell in rhythm, steady and deliberate, tapping against the metal wreckage below before gathering into a dark, glimmering pool on the stone floor.
John's eyes flickered open. His whole body ached as he pushed himself up onto his knees. When he looked down, his palms were slick with blood. He let out a hoarse breath—half laugh, half sigh.
"I'm… still alive, huh?"
He clenched his hand, forcing blood between his fingers. Droplets splattered on the cold stone beneath him. The sound—soft, wet—was the only thing that reminded him he was still here.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. The air was thick with dust and the metallic scent of rusted iron. The vast chamber around him was silent, stretching far into shadow. Only a faint beam of light reached down from the broken doorway high above—the one he had fallen through.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, something caught the light.
A stone pillar, waist-high, stood a few steps away. On top of it rested a chest—small, old, half-open.
John froze. For a moment, he just stared. Then, cautiously, he approached. The lid was slightly ajar, as if someone had once tried to close it in a hurry and failed.
He placed a hand on it, hesitated, then pressed.
The lock gave way with a tired creak.
Inside lay stacks of aged banknotes—thousands of dollars, untouched for decades. The Evans' hidden fortune.
John stared at the sight, speechless. Relief washed through him, cutting through the pain and exhaustion. A faint, trembling smile tugged at his lips.
"Finally," he whispered, "the money for Mike's explosives… found at last."
He began stuffing his pockets, not bothering to count. The bills were brittle, yellowed, but real. When every pocket bulged with cash, he stopped—half the treasure still sitting in the chest, waiting for someone else who'd never come.
John gave it one last glance, then turned his eyes upward, toward the faint light spilling from above.
John glanced around the vast, shadow-choked chamber. There was only one way out—the doorway high above, the same one he'd fallen through.
He stared up at it, jaw tightening.
"They're probably still up there…" he whispered.
But fate had shoved him this far already; it could drag him a little more. Whether it was police, guards, or someone else entirely, none of them mattered to him now. Not anymore.
He climbed onto the ruined elevator, its metal carcass groaning under his weight. When he reached the wall, he drew a slow breath, hardened his left forearm, and with a sharp click the hook-blade shot out.
John dug the hook-blade deep into the stone and pulled himself upward. Every movement burned, yet his mind refused to stay in the present.
"Mike… of all people to run into first."
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Over ten years. Ten damn years. And the first thing I tell him is 'Clean this place up.'"
He climbed higher, muscles trembling.
"That's what I said to him? After everything? After how we used to be?"
His jaw clenched.
"I just… couldn't do it. Couldn't talk to him. Couldn't look at him too long. I didn't want to get dragged into whatever he's become."
Brick dust crumbled onto his shoulders.
"He left school because of me… he threw everything away because of me. I know it. Everyone knew it. He kept acting like he didn't care but hell—he cared more than I ever did."
He blinked hard, fingers tightening on the stone ridge.
"And now he's a gang leader? A wreck? A joke the whole city laughs at? Because of me."
A bitter breath slipped out.
"I didn't want to hurt him again. Didn't want to open my mouth and say something real. So I said the first stupid thing that came to mind. Just a quick escape."
He climbed slowly, controlled, but his voice was barely more than a murmur now.
"But he wanted to talk. I could see it. His eyes… damn it. Maybe he wanted to ask something. Maybe he wanted to yell. Maybe he just wanted to say hi."
His throat felt tight.
"And what did I do? Shut him down. Like he was… nothing."
Another pull. The doorway grew closer.
"…I don't even know if he hates me now. Wouldn't blame him if he did."
Lost in thought, he didn't notice how quickly he rose. When he looked up again, he was already beneath the open doorway. He hauled himself inside, rolling onto the dusty floor of the old closet he'd hidden in moments earlier.
He stuck his head out and scanned the bedroom.
Empty. Just ashes and abandoned furniture.
Then—voices.
Low, irritated voices drifting from the entrance hall.
John silently crossed the room, leaned toward the door, and pressed his eye to the keyhole.
Three men stood in the entrance hall. One paced angrily, while the other two stared at him with blank, obedient expressions. They wore fur-lined outfits, wolf-like hoods, metal batons strapped to their elbows, pistols holstered at their sides.
The loud one barked,
"Still nothing?! We searched the whole place and not a damn trace of that treasure! The contractor's gonna lose his mind! And we're doing this in broad daylight, not night like usual!"
One of the side-men shrugged.
"But, Robert… contractor hasn't even paid us a penny yet. Why freak out?"
Robert snapped back,
"He promised us half the money once we find it! Half! But there's something else—WE, the Night Wolves, made a deal with Mike's gang. We only operate at night. The contractor rushed us, so now we're breaking the agreement."
The other man smirked.
"What? You scared of that sad, homeless bum?"
Robert exploded instantly.
"What?! No! I'm just a man of my word! And there's no point starting trouble between gangs unless we want the damn city to catch fire! Whatever… we'll come back tonight. Let's move."
The three men stormed out the front door and vanished down the street.
John let out a slow breath.
"So… another gang. Mike's rivals."
He stood, stepped carefully into the hall, and made his way outside toward the bustling streets of Son of York.
"I should tell Mike," he murmured. "He deserves to know."
"But how do I even do it?" he whispered to himself.
But another thought clawed at him for a moment:
What if they come back… and find the money I left behind? What'll they do with it?
The thought vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He'd taken what he came for. The rest wasn't his problem.
As for who the Night Wolves were working for… that remained a mystery.
One John didn't care to solve.