After the dry echo of the gunshot, the world seemed to split in two.
For a fraction of a second, no one reacted. Silence dropped over the place like an invisible slab—heavy, unreal—broken only by the hum of the floodlights and the distant click of a camera that kept recording out of sheer inertia.
Then chaos exploded.
The crowd surged all at once like a wounded animal. Screams tore through the air. Chairs overturned, bodies slammed into one another, hands shoving without looking back. Some people tripped and fell; others stepped on them without even noticing, driven by nothing but the instinct to run. Camera cables snapped taut and ripped free from the floor, sparks jumping as they disconnected, and several lights crashed down with a thunderous clatter.
At the center of it all, the man who had been sitting behind Andrick collapsed heavily onto the stage.
He didn't move.
His blood began to spread beneath him—dark, thick—forming a pool that contrasted brutally with the artificial glare of the set. His eyes stayed open, fixed on nothing, while the rising murmur of panic swallowed him whole.
Mark watched the scene for barely a second—but it was enough.
A freezing knot tightened in his stomach.
"Shit…" slipped from his lips in a low voice, almost to himself. "This is not good."
He spun sharply toward his team, his political composure cracking for the first time.
"We have to leave," he ordered. "Right now."
The head of security was already moving.
"Perimeter!" he barked with authority. "Seal the exits! Find the shooter!"
Agents deployed immediately, forming a human cordon while others aimed toward nearby rooftops, scanning for shadows, movement—anything. Radio chatter erupted. Overlapping commands. Tense voices.
Andrick barely managed to understand what was happening.
He felt the burn on his face seconds later, as if the pain had arrived late. A warm thread ran down his cheek, but he didn't fully register it. The world turned muffled, blurred, like he was trapped inside someone else's dream.
His bodyguards surrounded him fast—solid bodies, firm hands pushing him down.
"Get down!"
They covered him completely, forming a tight shield as they dragged him off the stage. The noise was deafening: screams, orders, boots pounding the floor, someone crying somewhere in the crowd.
They drove him toward the lower level, away from the epicenter of the chaos.
Andrick walked… but he couldn't feel his own steps.
Adrenaline kept his body moving, but his mind lagged several seconds behind—stuck on the exact instant everything changed. For a fleeting moment, he had the strange sensation that his entire life had unfolded in front of him: loose images, unfinished memories, promises not yet kept.
He blinked.
The present snapped back into place.
As they carried him farther from the stage, a silent certainty began to settle inside him:
That hadn't been just an attack.
It had been a warning.
Elsewhere, an image began to surface.
It was blurry, unstable, as if folding in on itself. Shapes stretched and compressed, and the light coming from somewhere outside his field of view was too intense—almost aggressive.
Aiden opened his eyes with immense difficulty.
He blinked once. Then again.
Each attempt cost him more than it should have. His head felt heavy, as if it didn't fully belong to him. The world took several seconds to settle—to accept his return.
What… what the hell happened…?
He tried to turn his neck, but the movement was clumsy, limited. A deep pain ran through his body and forced him to stop. He had no strength. He could barely move his arms.
That was when he noticed the light.
The sun was already high.
The shadows in the room weren't the shadows of dawn. They were long, defined. The day had moved on without him.
How long…? he thought, his throat dry.
He took a deep breath and, carefully, brought a hand to his side.
He froze.
His fingers traced the spot where hours ago he'd felt something inside him break—where the pain had been so intense he'd barely managed to scream.
The ribs were there.
Solid.
In place.
"What…?" he murmured. "No… that's not possible."
He remembered the hit. The crack. The absolute certainty they were shattered. That man hadn't hesitated. Hadn't held back.
And yet…
With an effort that tore a groan out of him, he managed to sit up. He braced himself against the wall and, step by step, made his way to the mirror.
The reflection staring back at him left him silent.
The minor injuries were still there.
Shallow cuts. Dark bruises. Visible marks across his face and torso. None of it had vanished. None of it had fully healed.
Aiden frowned.
He thought back to the previous fight—those men he'd faced days earlier—how after that battle his body had sealed wounds with an almost absurd speed, how he'd barely felt drained.
This was different.
Very different.
He pressed his forehead to the mirror, breathing hard.
So… he thought. It's not infinite healing.
The idea took shape with unsettling clarity.
Healing consumes my own energy.
Not just that.
It prioritizes.
Critical damage first. The kind that threatens life. Everything else… gets left for later.
He straightened slightly, feeling his legs tremble.
That explained everything.
The extreme exhaustion. The hollow feeling. The fact he could barely stay standing even though the "worst" wasn't broken anymore.
"And if that's true…" he continued reasoning, "…then there has to be a limit."
A saturation point.
A moment when the body simply can't take any more.
He looked at the suit, half-hung and destroyed, unrecognizable. Torn fabric. Split seams. Burn marks and cuts.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Great…" he muttered. "I'm going to need more."
He thought it with a strange calm.
I'll order them online.
At this rate… I'm going to have to replace them constantly.
The thought didn't bother him as much as it should have.
He slowly slid down until he was sitting against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. The silence in the room grew heavy, dense.
And then the words came back.
Nothing is free.
Everything requires sacrifice.
Aiden clenched his jaw.
Am I really selfish…? he thought.
He opened his eyes and stared into the empty space ahead.
What's wrong with wanting to monetize?
It was the only way he knew. The only path he could see toward his true goal. To go farther. To stop being invisible.
He hesitated.
For the first time since all of this began, his absolute certainty cracked—just a little.
Maybe…
Maybe he could do both.
Help… and grow.
It didn't have to be one or the other.
He dragged a hand over his face, letting out a tired sigh.
"In some way…" he admitted to himself, "that guy was right."
If he was going to survive what was coming, brute strength wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't be enough to believe power would solve everything.
He had to prepare.
He had to train.
Aiden rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
This time, not to rest.
But to start thinking about how to truly become stronger.
Kael remained inside his car with the engine off and the lights completely out, watching the warehouse from a distance. He'd been there for hours.
With his elbow propped against the door and his gaze fixed, he'd ended up memorizing the patterns—the entrances, the shadows, the repetitive movements of the men posted outside.
"Interesting…" he murmured.
He checked the time on his watch and looked again.
"They смен change shifts every eight hours," he muttered to himself. "On the dot."
A short, dry nasal laugh escaped him.
"Look at that… even those bastards have working hours."
He sank deeper into the seat.
"Unlike someone," he added with irony, "who barely gets benefits."
At that moment, the constant murmur of the radio cut out abruptly. The music vanished, replaced by the urgent voice of a news anchor.
Kael frowned and turned the volume up.
"Breaking news," the broadcast said. "A serious incident has been reported during this morning's public debate. Candidate Andrick has been the victim of an armed attack…"
Kael straightened immediately.
"What…?" he whispered.
The anchor continued, describing the chaos, the shot, the evacuation, the uncertain state of the situation. Kael pressed his lips together, feeling something twist wrong in his stomach.
Now?
His mind began to work almost automatically, connecting dots.
"This can't be a coincidence…" he thought. "Too many things happening at the same time."
He looked back at the warehouse.
The silence out there felt heavier.
"Something's moving," he continued reasoning. "And I have no idea who's pulling the strings… but someone is."
The anchor's voice kept going.
"And in other news, authorities report multiple strange cases across the city. People found unconscious, with no clear signs of violence. Dozens are already being reported in comatose states, in different areas—"
Kael didn't let him finish.
He reached out and shut the radio off hard.
Silence returned inside the car, broken only by his slow breathing.
"No," he said quietly. "Not now."
He stared ahead, serious, focused.
"This is all connected," he thought. "And whatever it is… it's about to blow."
He adjusted his posture again, repositioning the binoculars and checking the warehouse perimeter one more time.
Aiden stepped out of the apartment still wearing his robe, dragging his feet slightly to the doorway. The morning air hit him full in the face—cold and clean, nothing like the chaos of the night before. He squinted against the sunlight just as the delivery guy stopped in front of him.
"Morning," Aiden greeted with an automatic smile.
The delivery guy looked up… and stared a second too long.
The bruises on Aiden's face were impossible to ignore. The eye still darkened. A poorly closed cut on his eyebrow. His lip slightly swollen.
The man's expression shifted from neutral to uncomfortable.
"Uh…" he hesitated. "Everything okay?"
Aiden noticed instantly.
He smiled a bit more.
"I train boxing," he said casually, like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.
The delivery guy sized him up for another second, clearly not fully convinced, but decided not to ask.
"Well…" he finally said. "They don't pay me to ask questions. Either way, here's your package. Enjoy."
"Thanks," Aiden nodded, taking the box.
He closed the door behind him and walked back inside the apartment.
"Bless full shipping," he muttered, letting out a small laugh.
He set the package on the bed and opened it without wasting time. Inside were several suits, similar to the last one, but clearly upgraded: tougher materials, reinforced seams, pieces designed to take real hits. They weren't cheap… but they were necessary.
He studied them closely.
"This should be enough… for a good while," he thought.
He sat down for a moment, breathing deeply.
Little by little, the hollow feeling in his body began to ease. Not completely, but enough. He could move more easily. His muscles still ached, reminding him of every blow he'd taken, but it no longer felt like he'd collapse from the slightest effort.
He stood.
Took a couple of steps.
Rolled his shoulders.
"Definitely… I'm recovering," he murmured.
He lifted his gaze to his reflection in the hallway mirror. His eyes no longer showed only exhaustion. There was something else there. Determination… and a growing unease.
"I need to learn to control this," he said quietly. "Brute strength really won't be enough."
He remembered every movement the Exterminator had made. Every minimal dodge. Every precise strike.
"That guy wastes nothing," he thought. "No movement is unnecessary. Everything kills."
He lightly clenched his fists.
"It's not enough to have power… I have to know how to use it."
Then, as if an obvious idea finally clicked into place, he smiled.
"And I think I already know how to start."
He grabbed his phone and unlocked it.
Without hesitation, he typed:
"How to fight in 5 minutes"
Videos appeared one after another. Over-the-top thumbnails. Titles absurdly confident. Self-proclaimed gurus promising instant results.
"Perfect," he muttered.
He placed the phone on a shelf and started copying the movements.
Straight punches. Basic guards. Awkward footwork.
The result was… chaotic.
A badly aimed punch clipped a lamp.
A kick made a chair wobble.
"Shit," he growled, trying to keep his balance.
From the apartment next door, a knock sounded against the wall.
"That annoying kid again…" an elderly voice muttered, clearly irritated.
Aiden didn't hear it… or didn't care.
He kept going.
Switched videos.
Copied another stance.
Tried a different style.
Hours passed like that—sweating, punching the air, knocking things over, adjusting movements again and again—like something inside him was trying to force the pieces to fit.
And in the middle of it all…
A green flash crossed his eyes.
Brief.
Intense.
Aiden didn't notice it consciously.
But his body did.