The two men burst into the warehouse, dragging their feet. The harsh light of the industrial fixtures fell on them without mercy, revealing dark bruises, poorly closed cuts, and clothes stained with dried blood. One was visibly limping; the other kept an arm pressed tightly to his body, as if moving it might break something inside. Every breath was an effort. After a few more steps, the second man stopped. His nose was crooked, bent unnaturally to one side. He frowned, clenched his teeth, and with a rough motion snapped it back into place. The sound echoed through the warehouse—brief, sharp, disturbing. He let out a muffled grunt and kept walking, as if pain were just another thing he could no longer afford to feel.
The Accountant watched them from the center of the room, motionless. He didn't approach. There was no need.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked at last, his voice low and heavy—more dangerous than a shout. "And where's the money?"
One of the men swallowed hard. He stepped forward and, with trembling hands, placed the bundle on the metal table. The bills were crumpled, some stained.
"It's… it's only part of it," he stammered. "We couldn't finish."
The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. The Accountant's face hardened. His jaw tightened slowly, as if holding something back that didn't need to explode… yet. Without warning, he twisted his body and drove a sharp punch into the man closest to him. The blow landed square on his face. A brief, sickening crack echoed through the space. The man stumbled back, clutching his face. His nose twisted sharply to one side, blood pouring down.
"Damn it! Why again?" he managed to gasp, voice broken through groans.
"You know the rules," the Accountant said. "Mistakes aren't allowed here."
The two men exchanged desperate glances.
"Let us explain," the second one cut in, almost pleading. "It wasn't our fault."
The Accountant raised his eyes.
"Talk."
The first man took a deep breath.
"A guy…" he began. "He came out of nowhere. Dressed like… like an insect."
The Accountant frowned slightly.
"An insect?"
"Yes," he rushed on. "A weird costume. Wings. Antennae. Ridiculous. We thought it was a joke." He gestured to his swollen face. "It wasn't."
They told the story in broken fragments: how the stranger interrupted them, how he walked into the shop without fear, how he hit them with a strength that made no sense. Each word tightened the air. When they mentioned that he was young—just a kid—something shifted.
The Accountant slammed his palm down on the table. The bang echoed throughout the warehouse.
"A brat in a cheap costume?" he spat. "And you let him humiliate you?"
He straightened slowly and walked toward them with heavy steps.
"Do you have any idea what this means?" he continued. "If word gets out, the other organizations will smell blood. They'll think we're losing control… and when that happens, they start to rebel."
The two men lowered their heads. Before he could say more, another man approached cautiously, holding a phone.
"Boss," he said. "You need to see this."
He showed him the screen. A video. The suit. The wings. The fight. The Accountant watched in silence. His expression didn't change—but something cold settled behind his eyes.
"Find him," he ordered at last. "I want that guy brought here."
He lifted his gaze, fixing it on everyone present.
"Alive."
He turned away, signaling the matter was over. That was when he saw them: a few meters away, leaning against a column, stood the two men who had been tailing Kael. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They just waited—alert, patient, like predators. The Accountant paused for a second.
The game had just gained another piece.
Elsewhere in the city, far from the chaos, a wide office of glass and white light ran with mechanical precision: phones ringing, keyboards clacking, formal voices repeating figures and orders. Dark suits crossed the space like parts of a machine.
From the far end of the hallway, Andrick appeared, walking with purpose, followed by assistants. One spoke nonstop, checking a tablet and delegating tasks with surgical precision; with every instruction, someone peeled away until only Andrick and his chief aide remained.
They walked a few meters. The aide stopped and looked at him.
"Tomorrow's the big day," he said. "The debate. For people, it's the event that tips the vote… the moment they decide who the next district head will be."
He paused.
"Are you sure you want to reveal what we discussed?"
Andrick didn't answer right away. He took a few more steps, as if organizing something inside himself, then let out a heavy sigh.
"Yes," he said. "The world needs to know the truth. It needs to see how rotten the system is."
He fell silent for a moment.
"They would've liked that," he added, almost under his breath.
The aide frowned slightly.
"You mean…?"
Andrick nodded.
"Yes."
They said nothing more. They crossed a narrow hallway and stopped before a light wooden door with a discreet plaque.
"I want to be alone for a moment," Andrick said.
"Of course."
The door closed behind him, sharp and final.
Inside, the office held an unnatural calm. Muted yellow walls, dark wood, a wide desk, shelves of books, firm chairs—sober, unadorned. Andrick sat slowly and rested his elbows on the desk, motionless, staring into nothing, shoulders slumped as if the weight of everything had fallen on him at once.
His eyes drifted to one wall. A large portrait hung there: a man with a serene expression, a gentle smile, white hair streaked with darker roots. His eyes conveyed intelligence, patience, and an almost naïve faith.
Below it, a metal plaque read:
In Memory of the Council Leader
1951 – 2015
Andrick held the man's gaze for a long time.
"I'll change everything," he murmured firmly. "I promised you."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.
"And I'll do whatever it takes to keep that promise."
The silence returned.
But it was no longer the same.
After gathering the necessary information, Kael returned to his apartment. The building was old, with long, poorly lit hallways, peeling paint, and flickering lights that hadn't been fixed in years. As he walked down the corridor, other people's lives unfolded openly: a neighbor smoking against the wall, eyes empty; farther down, a violent argument exploded behind a closed door, overlapping shouts filled with rage. Kael walked past without reacting. That noise was already part of the scenery.
Inside his apartment, he closed the door and let out a slow breath. He dropped a grocery bag on the table, put a couple of things away without thinking, and turned on the record player. The crackle of vinyl gave way to an old melody that filled the room. He poured a drink and lit a cigarette. Smoke rose slowly, and for a few moments, the outside world ceased to exist.
He sat, exhausted. Drank in silence, letting the music do its work, until he picked up his phone. He scrolled through his contacts without interest… until he stopped.
Nicole.
The screen lit his face. Kael froze, finger hovering over her name. Calling her felt more dangerous than any dark alley or armed criminal. He hesitated. His hand trembled slightly. Long seconds passed. Finally, he turned the phone off and set it face down.
He took another drink and leaned back in the chair, letting the music and smoke surround him.
For that night, there were decisions he preferred not to face.
Between poorly lit streets, Pinky wandered carelessly, crossing lanes as if nothing mattered. Cars screeched to a halt, horns blaring around him, shattering the night's silence.
"Leave me alone!" he shouted, raising his arm clumsily.
His steps were erratic, unsteady, as if the ground were shifting beneath him. His eyes burned, jaw clenched, pulse racing. He wasn't fully there. Whether from fear, guilt, or something running through his blood, Pinky had lost control of his body. It took several tries to find his keys. When he finally opened the door, he stumbled inside and slammed it shut harder than necessary. The kitchen light snapped on, revealing the everyday mess of a small, neglected apartment.
He took a few steps—and knocked a plate over without noticing. The crash of ceramic made him jump as if he'd been shot. He staggered back, breathing hard, shoved a chair aside, and cursed under his breath.
"Shit… shit…"
He leaned against the counter, trying to calm himself. Inhale. Exhale. His breathing steadied. Then he heard it: a creak. Slow. Metallic. Pinky looked up.
The front door was ajar.
His stomach tightened.
"I… I swear I closed it…" he muttered, more to convince himself than out of certainty.
He approached with unsteady steps, pushed it fully shut, and locked it. He shook his head, nervous.
"I'm too high," he told himself. "That's all."
He turned around—
—and froze.
In the living room, seated and standing as if they'd always been there, were three men. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They just watched him. Pinky stepped back.
"What…?"
He tried to turn toward the door, but a shadow blocked his path.
"Hello, Pinky."
The voice was calm. Too calm.
The Accountant stood in front of him, hands relaxed, a faint smile on his face.
"You look a little nervous," he added, tilting his head.
Pinky's heart began to pound violently.
"B-boss!" he blurted. "You scared me… I didn't hear you come in."
The Accountant raised an eyebrow.
"And why would you be scared?" he asked. "Unless you did something you shouldn't have."
Pinky shook his head immediately—too fast.
"Of course not!" he said. "I stayed on my corner all day. Watching. That's it."
The Accountant nodded slowly.
"That's good," he said. "Very good."
He paused.
"Only… I saw something curious."
One of the men in the back stood and stepped forward, holding a phone. The screen lit up.
Pinky saw himself.
There he was, standing in the street.
And in front of him… Kael.
His world collapsed. His legs trembled. His mouth went dry.
"I didn't… I didn't…" he stammered. "It's not what you think…"
The Accountant nodded slowly, as if he'd heard that answer a thousand times.
"Sit him down."
The men didn't hesitate. They grabbed Pinky by the arms and forced him into a chair pulled from the dining area. He tried to resist, but it was useless. The Accountant calmly removed his jacket and took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipping them on carefully.
"Hygiene is important," he said, adjusting them. "Even in dirty work."
He leaned down until he was level with Pinky's eyes.
"You're going to tell me everything you said," he continued. "Everything."
Pinky could only stare back, eyes filled with terror.
Outside, far away, a piercing scream tore through the night.
And no one went out to see what had happened.
When the people around the shop finally dispersed and everyone returned to their routines, silence slowly reclaimed the small store. The old man closed the door carefully and stood still for a few seconds, surveying the wreckage. He sighed.
"What a day…" he murmured.
He couldn't remember the last time something like this had made his heart race. Too many emotions for someone his age. He moved slowly between the shelves, salvaging what he could. When he saw the broken display window, he tilted his head and clicked his tongue.
"Well… the money that kid left should cover it."
He pulled the bills from his inner pocket and counted them carefully. He paused, surprised.
"He even left more than I'll need…"
He smiled and shook his head. As he turned to put the money away, the doorbell rang.
"I'll be right with you!" he called without turning. "Just a second."
He stashed the cash and looked up.
His smile vanished.
Standing before him was a very tall man—around six foot five—with an athletic build that didn't come from the gym, but from something more practical. Despite his size, there was a strange stillness about him, a sense of absolute control, as if every muscle sat exactly where it should. His hair was pure white, tied into a ponytail, with gray streaks running into a thick beard of the same color. At first glance he looked about thirty-eight, though something about him made his age hard to pin down. Dark glasses hid his eyes completely, making his gaze unreadable. Several scars ran along his arms and part of his face—old, clean marks, from someone used to surviving. He wore cream-colored cargo pants with bulging pockets, a black vest, and an open green button-up shirt, as if he needed no protection at all.
The old man swallowed, but kept his composure.
"How can I help you?" he asked.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he studied the place—the floor, the broken furniture, the shattered cases. Something in his expression grew distant. In his mind, the scene came alive: pale, translucent figures moved before him, recreating the fight—blows, trajectories, impacts. Each motion fit with surgical precision. The combat replayed again and again, as if the space itself remembered what had happened.
"Hey."
The old man's voice snapped him out of it.
"Are you going to buy something, or are you just here to gawk like everyone else?"
Slowly, the man raised a hand and removed his dark glasses. Beneath them, green eyes were revealed. They weren't normal—they glowed with an unnatural intensity, steady and direct. A gaze that didn't try to intimidate… but did anyway. Staring too long felt uncomfortable, almost violent, like that presence was seeing something deeper than the surface.
"If I buy something," he said in a deep voice, "will you let me look around in peace?"
The old man narrowed his eyes.
"That depends on what you buy."
Without another word, the man grabbed several handcrafted items from a nearby shelf—carved figures, small sculptures, pieces that clearly didn't interest him. He placed them one by one on the counter. Then he pulled out a thick stack of bills and dropped it on top.
"Is that enough?"
The old man's eyes widened.
"That much?"
The man nodded.
"Keep the change."
The old man laughed sincerely.
"Well, would you look at that! Stay as long as you like."
He gathered the money and the items and headed toward the back of the shop, muttering to himself, nearly giddy.
"Best day of my life… now let's see what I'm going to spend all this on…"
The man was left alone. He closed his eyes for a moment and resumed his mental reconstruction. When he finished, he inhaled deeply and smelled the air. One scent. Two. Three. He separated them easily, discarding the irrelevant ones until one stood out above the rest. A clear trail. Fresh. Unmistakable. A slow smile spread across his face.
"I've got you…" he murmured.
The pier stretched out in silence—long and straight—connected to the city by a boulevard that seemed in no hurry to end. On one side, the vast ocean lay open and calm, barely disturbed by a few anchored boats swaying gently, as if asleep. There was no wind. No voices. Only the distant sound of water striking wood.
Aiden reached the docking area and stopped. He looked at the sea for a few seconds, letting the stillness sink in. He yawned lazily and stretched, his shoulders cracking.
"Hell of a patrol…" he muttered. "Way too long for so little action."
He shook his head, almost disappointed.
"Too bad more guys like those didn't show up," he added with a confident grin. "With these abilities, I would've kicked their asses."
He turned, ready to head back the way he'd come.
Then the air changed.
An unnatural chill swept across the pier in an instant, as if the night had taken a sharp breath. Aiden barely had time to react. A harsh instinct screamed at him to move.
He jumped backward.
The explosion tore through the spot where he'd been a second earlier. The blast shook the wooden structure, the shockwave slamming into him and throwing him several meters through the air before he crashed violently onto the boards.
"What the hell—?!" he groaned, trying to rise as a ringing tore through his ears.
He looked up.
Atop an old water tower, silhouetted against the night sky, stood a figure. Still. Watching. In his hands, a smoking grenade launcher was aimed straight at him. The man didn't stay there long. He jumped—landing several meters ahead with terrifying precision, barely bending, as if gravity were only a suggestion. The impact boomed across the pier.
Aiden struggled to his feet, muscles taut, wings twitching nervously behind him. The man lifted his head slightly.
"I finally found you," he said in a deep, confident voice. "Moth Man."
The sea remained calm.
But the hunt had just begun.