Aiden staggered down the street almost blind, swaying, his vision warped and his body moving only by inertia. What remained of what had once been his suit hung in tatters, soaked with salt water and dried blood. Every step was an effort. Every breath, a reminder of how close he had come to the end.
The streets were deserted.
The city slept, indifferent.
He didn't know how long he had been walking when, almost by miracle, he recognized the silhouette of his building. He stopped for a moment, pressing a trembling hand against the wall, as if he needed to make sure it wasn't a hallucination. Then he went inside.
The elevator took an eternity to arrive.
When the doors finally closed, Aiden let his body slump against the metal wall. The reflection staring back at him was unrecognizable: one swollen eye, pale skin, uneven breathing. He swallowed hard.
How… how am I still alive…? he thought, without even the strength to speak.
The image of the grenade launcher flashed through his mind.
The cold gleam in the Exterminator's eyes.
In that moment, he had known it with certainty: he was going to die there. No doubt. No escape.
And yet, he was still breathing.
The elevator stopped with a slight jolt. The doors opened.
Aiden dragged his feet down the hallway, fumbling for his keys with clumsy hands. Every movement made his body feel heavier. The exhaustion was no longer just physical; it was deep, absolute, as if something inside him were slowly shutting down.
The Exterminator's words echoed endlessly in his head.
Nothing is free. Everything requires sacrifice.
He stopped in front of his door, resting his forehead against the wood for a few seconds, trying to gather strength for one last effort.
Did I really… leave behind something that mattered?
The lock gave way. Aiden stepped inside and closed the door behind him without looking back.
He took one step.
And his body finally gave up.
He collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, completely unconscious.
Outside, the night continued on, indifferent to everything.
Inside the apartment, the silence grew heavy. Slowly, a golden dust began to seep from his body, rising into the air like particles of living light. It spread over his wounds, covering them with a faint, almost reverent glow.
Aiden's breathing grew labored.
Irregular.
But it was still there.
In the middle of the night, a sharp sound cut through the silence.
The door opened.
The Exterminator's figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the hallway light. He paused for a second, motionless, scanning the room with his eyes. Every corner. Every shadow. Every reflection. There was no haste in his movements—only habit.
He stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him and set his weapons down on a nearby armchair with almost ritual precision. Metal met fabric with a soft thud. Then he began removing his vest, tossing it aside carelessly, as if its weight no longer mattered.
The place was covered in trophies.
Entire walls adorned with remnants, marks of past hunts, memories of completed jobs. There was no pride in them—only evidence. Proof that he had survived.
He walked over to a small side table, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a generous drink into a worn glass. He sank into the couch, barely making it dip, and rested his feet on the coffee table. He drank slowly, letting the liquid burn on the way down.
That was when he heard it.
A buzzing.
High-pitched. Persistent.
He frowned and looked up.
An insect fluttered around the lamp, tracing erratic circles. It flew aimlessly, striking the light again and again, until it slowly descended and landed on the table, just inches from his hand.
Time seemed to twist.
For an instant, the room disappeared.
He saw a small, isolated village, devoured by dust and sun. Thousands of insects covering the fields, stripping the crops until nothing remained. People screaming in the streets, pushing each other, fighting over what little was left. Hunger. Desperation. Chaos.
The memory was brief.
Violent.
Enough.
He snapped back to the present.
Without thinking, he crushed the insect with the palm of his hand.
The impact was so brutal that the table split beneath the force, the wood cracking and giving way in two. The insect's body was reduced to an insignificant smear among the debris.
He took a deep breath.
Once.
Twice.
His pulse began to slow.
He remained still for a few seconds, his hand resting on the broken wood. Then he straightened up, lifted the glass that had somehow remained intact, and took another long, silent drink.
He said nothing.
He just kept drinking, as the echo of the buzzing faded from his mind.
Hours passed, and the world continued on.
The moon crossed the sky until it vanished before dawn. Outside, floodlights were already on, cameras aligned, cables stretched across the ground like exposed veins. Everything was ready.
Today was the big day.
The day of the debate.
Inside the building, far from the growing murmur, Andrick remained alone in his dressing room. Standing before the mirror, he studied his own reflection with absolute stillness. The suit was impeccable. His face calm. But his gaze wasn't entirely there.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
He was eight years old.
He saw himself standing on a small stool in front of another mirror—much older, its frame slightly worn. He watched himself carefully, trying to adopt a posture that felt important, almost solemn.
"Son, what are you doing up there?" a voice asked from behind him.
He turned.
His father stood in the doorway, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and exhaustion.
"You know your mother doesn't like it when you climb on the mirror."
"I like looking at myself," the boy replied. "I look like a movie star."
His father chuckled softly and shook his head.
"I hadn't thought of it that way," he admitted. "But you'd better get down, son. You know how your mother gets."
He carefully lifted him down, ruffling his hair.
"Come on," he said. "It's time to go."
They went out into the street.
The sun wasn't fully strong yet, and the air felt cool. His father took his hand, and as they walked, they began to play a game—counting the cars that passed by. Each had chosen a different color. The boy got excited every time he won by one.
They spent the day together.
They sold products.
They walked back and forth.
When the sun began to set, his father bent down toward him and smiled tiredly.
"It's been a long day," he said. "Time to go home."
Before doing so, he bought him an ice cream. The boy held it carefully, as if it were a small treasure, as they headed back. To get home, they had to cross a narrow alley, one of many that connected the commercial area to their neighborhood.
The memory stopped there.
"Sir," a voice said.
The dressing room door opened.
The assistant peeked inside, his expression serious, restrained.
"It's time to go out."
Andrick inhaled slowly.
He nodded.
Before moving, he looked at his reflection one last time. He adjusted his jacket with a firm motion and lifted his chin slightly.
"It's time for things to change—"
In front of a massive warehouse, surrounded by a wide stretch of vacant land where only a few cars passed by, a discreet vehicle sat parked, almost lost in the shadows. From inside, Kael watched in silence, patient, his gaze fixed on the metallic structure rising before him.
What the hell is going on in that warehouse…? he thought.
Suspicion and gut feelings weren't enough. He needed something more. Irrefutable evidence. Something that would allow him not only to catch them, but to understand why they would do something like this in the first place.
He looked away for a moment and grabbed the binoculars from the passenger seat. When he focused again, he analyzed every detail carefully. One of the entrances was guarded by only two men. They stood there, motionless, as if the world around them didn't exist.
Only two…
That could mean many things. Minimal security… or dangerous confidence.
Kael slowly lowered the binoculars, leaning back against the seat. He knew he couldn't rush this. He needed an opportunity. A slip. A mistake.
He lit a cigarette, the click of the lighter briefly breaking the silence inside the car. He exhaled slowly, never taking his eyes off the warehouse.
"Looks like all that's left is to wait…" he murmured to himself.
And he kept watching.
Mark stepped forward when the moderator gave him the floor. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His tone was firm, measured—the tone of someone used to being heard.
"We live in difficult times," he began. "Times of uncertainty, fear, and rapid change that test any society."
He paused briefly, letting the cameras focus on him.
"But I want to say something with absolute clarity: our system works."
Murmurs rose among the audience.
"It's not perfect," he continued. "No system is. But it has guaranteed stability, growth, and security for decades. It has prevented chaos from taking over our streets and violence from defining our future."
He interlaced his fingers in front of him.
"My commitment has always been the same: to protect that balance. To defend the institutions that sustain this city, even when they are attacked by those who believe destroying is easier than building."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Today, there are those who want to convince us that everything is broken. That order is the enemy. That simply pointing out flaws justifies tearing the entire system down."
He shook his head slowly.
"That is not courage. It is irresponsibility."
He leaned slightly toward the microphone.
"I will continue fighting for what we have. For the rules that keep us together. For a future where change comes with responsibility—not through impulses, nor through incendiary speeches that promise simple solutions to complex problems."
He straightened his back.
"Order is not oppression."
"The system is not the enemy."
"And those who seek to alter it without considering the consequences put everyone at risk."
He concluded calmly.
"As long as I am here, I will do everything necessary to ensure that does not happen," he said, crossing his gaze with Andrick.
While the debate unfolded under lights and spotlights, something very different was happening in a nearby building.
A man dressed entirely in black rushed up the service stairs. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the metal as he took the steps two at a time, breathing in a controlled rhythm, wasting no air. A compact black backpack was strapped tightly to his back, secured so it wouldn't hinder his movement.
He didn't look back.
He didn't hesitate.
Reaching the final flight, he pushed open the rooftop door and stepped outside. The wind hit him immediately. Without wasting time, he knelt by the edge and opened the backpack in a single motion.
Inside, the parts were perfectly arranged.
He took out a rifle and began assembling it with mechanical speed, almost automatic. Each piece snapped into place with a sharp, precise click. There was no nervousness in his hands—only habit. Experience.
In seconds, the weapon was ready.
He raised his gaze toward the stage in the distance.
Andrick stepped up to the microphone and, before speaking, scanned the crowd. The cameras. The spotlights. The people who had come to hear him.
He took a deep breath.
"Good evening."
He let the greeting settle, letting the murmur die down.
"Today I am not here only as a candidate. I am here as someone who, like many of you, has experienced firsthand what it means for the system to fail."
He paused briefly.
"Because let's be honest… how many of us has the system never failed, at least once?"
Some gazes dropped. Others tensed.
"How many people have had to swallow an injustice? How many have learned to lower their eyes, to stay silent—not because they were wrong, but out of fear of retaliation?"
His voice wasn't aggressive. It was clear. Confident.
"I lived it myself."
He turned his face slightly, as if for a moment he were speaking more to himself than to the audience.
"The system failed my father. And it also failed the previous district chief. People who believed that doing the right thing would be enough… and discovered too late that it isn't always so."
Now he looked straight ahead.
"From that moment on, I swore something to myself: that I would not allow things to keep working the same way just because 'that's how they've always been.'"
A heavy silence settled over the place.
"Change is not comfortable. It never has been. But it is necessary."
He turned his head slightly—just enough to lock eyes with Mark.
"There are those who believe that maintaining order means standing still. That questioning is dangerous. That evolving puts what already exists at risk."
He held the gaze for another second.
"I believe the opposite."
He turned back to the audience.
"I believe the real danger lies in stagnation. In closing our eyes. In pretending everything works while people keep paying the price."
His fingers tightened slightly around the lectern.
"I am not here to destroy anything. I am here to change what is broken. So that no one else has to grow up learning that justice is a privilege instead of a right."
He breathed in again.
"And if that makes those who have been comfortable for years uncomfortable… then perhaps we are on the right path."
The tension between them was impossible to ignore.
"I want a world where people can live in peace," Andrick continued. "A world where parents are not afraid when their children walk to school. Where seeing a police officer doesn't create distrust… but security."
His voice rang out powerfully.
"A world where we don't have to live looking over our shoulders."
The reaction was immediate.
Applause.
Voices rising.
People standing.
The clamor swelled like a wave that completely surrounded him. Andrick held the audience's gaze, visibly moved, but firm. Then he lifted his chin slightly, as if he had made a definitive decision.
"And today," he said, "the world will know the truth."
The noise began to fade.
"The truth about what is rotten. The truth about what really happened in that attack."
He turned toward one of the giant screens behind the stage, ready to continue.
He didn't get the chance.
From a nearby building, hidden in the rooftop shadows, the man watched through his rifle scope. The world narrowed to a single point. A single target.
"Andrick."
He pulled the trigger.
The shot tore through the air.
Andrick felt a sudden burning slash across his face, as if something sharp had cut him at incredible speed. He didn't have time to understand what had happened when, behind him, a man fell backward heavily.
The bullet had gone straight through his chest.
For a moment, everything fell silent.
Then chaos erupted.
Screams.
Cameras falling.
People shoving each other as they fled.
Blood began to slowly run down Andrick's cheek. Shock kept him standing for barely another second before the security team reacted.
"Get down!" they shouted.
They covered him immediately, forcing him to the ground as they formed a human shield around him. The stage became a whirlwind of movement, orders, and panic.
The debate was over.