Inside the hospital, the constant sound of gurney wheels gliding down the corridors mixed with a sharp scent of disinfectant and chlorine. It was a cold, clinical smell—impossible to ignore. The white ceiling lights left no room for shadows.
Andrick sat on the gurney, motionless, while a nurse carefully worked on the wound on his face. Beside him, his assistant sat on a metal chair, leaning forward, speaking into his phone in a low voice—yet the fury in his tone was unmistakable. His words tumbled over each other, loaded with tension and urgency.
Andrick didn't listen.
His gaze was fixed on the wall in front of him, distant, as if he were still trying to piece together fragments of the recent chaos. He barely reacted when the nurse pressed a gauze pad against his cheek.
"You were very lucky," she said in a calm, professional voice. "The bullet didn't damage any muscle. It's a superficial wound."
Andrick blinked.
"Three stitches will be enough," she added as she finished. "You won't need anything else."
A brief silence followed.
"May I tell you something?" the nurse asked, hesitating only slightly.
Andrick nodded slowly.
"Of course."
She looked at him seriously—yet with an honesty that was hard to fake.
"We truly believe in you," she said. "And this… this proves one thing: your presence makes a lot of people uncomfortable."
Carefully, she placed her hand on Andrick's uninjured cheek.
"Don't give up," she added. "The people are with you."
Andrick inhaled slowly.
For the first time since he'd arrived at the hospital, his posture changed. He straightened his back. His gaze stopped drifting and regained its firmness. He nodded in silence.
The nurse offered a faint smile and left the room.
A second later, the assistant ended the call and stood immediately, stepping into the space in front of Andrick.
"This is serious," he said bluntly. "They tried to silence you."
Andrick raised his eyes.
They were hard. Determined.
"And we know who did it," he replied in a firm voice. "That's why we're not stopping."
He paused briefly.
"Release the documents," he continued. "The world will know the truth."
It wasn't a request.
It was an order.
While the hospital spoke of truth and documents, somewhere else in the city someone was packing his escape. Mark moved clumsily inside his mansion.
The room was wide and luxurious. Two modern couches sat perfectly arranged at the center—designed to impress—and every wall was lined with large stained-glass windows that offered a privileged view of the sea, now tinted by the sunset. And yet, the luxury clashed brutally with the state of the place.
Papers were scattered across the floor. Drawers stood open. Objects were out of place.
Nothing was in order.
At the back of the room, Mark hurriedly filled a briefcase and a suitcase. He shoved in documents, thick envelopes, watches, jewelry—high-value items—without stopping to check anything. His hands trembled slightly, but moved with desperate, mechanical urgency, as if time itself had become his enemy.
His breathing was ragged.
Every second felt heavy.
The door opened.
"Mark…" his wife said as she stepped in, stopping short when she saw the mess. "What's going on?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He kept packing, zipping, checking the inside of the briefcase again and again without logic. He muttered broken, incoherent phrases.
"Everything… everything got out of control," he managed. "I have to go. Now."
She approached, confused.
"Go? After the assassination attempt?" she asked. "Mark, tell me what's happening. Why are you leaving the city? What aren't you telling me?"
She grabbed one of the papers he was about to pack, holding it tightly.
Mark stopped.
For the first time, he looked her straight in the eye.
His eyes were exhausted. Afraid.
"I can't tell you," he said quietly. "I made too many mistakes… and this time they're coming for me with everything."
She shook her head, disbelief written across her face.
"Then look at me and tell me," she demanded. "Don't leave like this."
Mark pressed his lips together.
"Tell our son that I love him," he said. "No matter what happens."
She stared at him with anger and pain.
"If you have something to say to him, say it yourself."
At that moment, the door opened again.
The boy appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.
"Why are you fighting?" he asked in a small voice. "Why do you and Mom always fight?"
Mark went still.
He crouched in front of him and placed a hand on his head, awkwardly stroking his hair.
"Adult things," he said. "Don't worry."
The boy looked at him, searching for more.
"I love you," Mark added, swallowing hard. "And listen carefully… no matter what happens, no matter what you hear about me… don't forget that."
The boy nodded, holding back tears.
"I've made a lot of mistakes," Mark continued. "And karma… always comes."
He straightened slowly.
"Take care of your mom," he said. "I'll come back… someday."
The boy watched him walk away without saying anything else.
Mark left the room.
Minutes later, he got into his car.
Before starting the engine, he rolled the window down and looked at his wife, who stood watching from the mansion entrance.
"If things get out of control," he said, "take the boy and get out of the district. Use the cash from the safe."
She didn't respond.
Mark put the car in reverse, tossing his phone out the window—he already knew they could track it.
The car pulled away down the driveway, disappearing onto the coastal road that ran along the sea.
In the center of his room, Aiden stood motionless for a moment, his fist extended forward.
He exhaled hard, quick and uneven, as if the air burned his lungs. Sweat ran down his forehead and soaked his back, sticking his shirt to his body. Every breath was a reminder of how far he'd pushed himself.
Through the windows, the last rays of sunlight still filtered in, tinted orange. The sky announced dusk, though for Aiden, time had stopped existing hours ago.
The floor was a disaster.
Overturned chairs, a broken lamp, impact marks on the wall. Objects displaced without order. Everything was evidence of the "intense" training he'd forced himself through all day—clumsy, improvised… but relentless.
On his phone, propped against a shelf, a video kept looping.
"Dodge using your own body weight."
Aiden copied the movements again and again. He twisted his torso, shifted his center of gravity, let imaginary strikes graze past him. At first it had been a disaster—exaggerated motions, misjudged steps, nonexistent balance.
But now…
Now something was different.
"...Yeah," he muttered between gasps. "This… this doesn't feel the same anymore."
He moved again. Smoother. Tighter.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't correct.
But it worked.
He suddenly looked up, as if something had pulled him out of his trance, and stared at the clock.
His eyes widened slightly.
"What…?"
Almost an entire day had passed.
A chill ran down his spine as he realized it. He hadn't eaten. He'd barely rested. Only training. Repeating. Failing. Adjusting.
He lowered his gaze to his body.
The wounds that hours ago had left him on the verge of collapse… were almost gone. The cuts had closed. The bruises had faded. Only a deep exhaustion remained, as if something inside him was running at forced speed.
So… it really is working, he thought.
He wasn't just healing.
He was adapting.
He slowly clenched his fist.
"I need to test this out there…"
Not just to see if he'd improved—but to understand his power under real conditions.
He moved to the edge of the bed and grabbed one of the new suits.
The difference was immediate.
The material fit better—firmer, tougher. The colors—dark brown mixed with black—absorbed the light differently, less flashy, more restrained. It didn't look like an improvised costume.
It looked like armor.
Aiden stared at himself in the mirror.
For the first time, he didn't see someone playing at being something bigger than he understood.
He saw someone who was starting to take it seriously.
"Alright…" he said under his breath. "Time to go."
The moment he stepped outside, he felt a tightness—almost a need. Something clenched around his chest.
He needed to see how things were out there.
He walked a couple of blocks without rushing, letting the cool dusk air clear his mind. When he reached the corner, he stopped.
Across the street stood the small craft shop.
From the opposite sidewalk, Aiden could see him.
The old man was serving a pair of customers, gesturing enthusiastically as he showed them a few pieces. His face was lit by a genuine smile—the kind you couldn't rehearse. He laughed, nodded, explained patiently, proud of every object that passed through his hands.
Aiden watched a few seconds longer than necessary.
Something strange stirred in his chest.
A brief calm.
"So… yeah. It was worth it," he murmured, letting out a small smile.
The moment shattered instantly.
From a nearby alley, several figures emerged.
Five men.
Aiden recognized them immediately.
Among them were the two guys he'd beaten days ago.
"We've been looking for him way too long," one growled, visibly irritated. "That guy isn't showing up anywhere."
"Because of you, idiots," another snapped with anger. "If you hadn't let yourselves get humiliated like that, we wouldn't be wasting time."
"He's right," a third cut in. "This is all a waste."
One of the men shook his head, still tense.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "That kid wasn't normal."
Before he could say more, one of them looked up.
And saw him.
"Look!" he shouted, pointing. "It's the fairy man!"
Aiden turned slowly.
He raised an eyebrow.
"What did you call me?" he asked, calm—too calm.
The men didn't hesitate.
They rushed him and surrounded him in seconds, closing off both sides of the street.
"This is as far as you go," one said, smiling with contempt. "You're going to pay for that humiliation."
"Our boss wants you alive," another added. "But before that… we can have a little fun with you."
Aiden watched them one by one.
He sighed.
"You again?" he said, slowly clenching his fists.
He felt the new suit tighten against his body—firm, resistant. He remembered the hours of training. The sweat. Punching the air. Falling.
He raised his gaze.
"And to think I actually loved this suit," he continued. "But I'm sick of you."
His expression changed.
"Now… you've made me angry."
The first man barely had time to react.
Aiden moved.
It wasn't a wild strike. It wasn't brute force.
It was precision.
A short twist of his torso. A straight punch into the center of the body.
The man flew backward and crashed onto the pavement.
The second tried to hit him from the side.
Aiden dodged using his own weight—just like he'd practiced—and answered with an upward strike that lifted him off the ground.
Another one fell after a dull impact to the chest.
It all happened in seconds.
Too fast.
"W-what the hell—?!" one managed before being slammed into a wall.
The men started backing away.
Fear was already obvious.
"Run!" one of them shouted. "Run!"
They scattered in different directions, stumbling, shoving each other.
One of the men pulled a gun and fired blindly.
Aiden reacted without thinking.
His wings snapped open in front of him.
Bullets struck them, ricocheting with sparks and dropping to the ground.
The shooter froze for barely a second.
I've had enough of you.
Aiden stepped forward.
"Where do you think you're going?" he said.
And the chase began.
Inside the warehouse, time seemed to move slower.
One of the men guarding a door stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. The click of a lighter briefly broke the silence, followed by an orange glow that lit his face before disappearing into the smoke.
Kael watched from a distance, unmoving.
He waited.
Counted the drags. The rhythm of the man's breathing. The exact instant the guard relaxed without realizing it.
Now.
He moved.
Every step was calculated, silent, staying glued to the shadows. A few meters ahead he spotted the second armed guard, still alert, leaning near the secondary entrance.
Kael crouched slowly and picked up a rock from the ground, weighing it for a moment.
Then he threw it to the opposite side of the warehouse.
The impact rang out—sharp.
The guard reacted instantly, raising his weapon as he advanced toward the noise, pulse spiking.
"What was that…?" he muttered.
When he got there, he found only the stone.
He frowned.
He didn't have time to turn.
Kael appeared behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck with a precise hold, pressing the exact point. The man struggled for only a few seconds before going limp and dropping unconscious.
Kael held him until he was sure he wouldn't make a sound.
"That should put you to sleep for a few minutes," he whispered.
He took a deep breath.
And went in.
The inside of the warehouse was wide, cold, loaded with an unnatural silence. The air smelled like metal, dust—and something else… something chemical. Every sound felt amplified: the brush of his clothes, his restrained breathing, the faint crunch of his boots on concrete.
He moved slowly, using shelves, crates, and support columns as cover. His mind worked fast, mapping escape routes, blind spots, dead angles.
Then he saw them.
Metal drums lined up with too much precision to be coincidence. On top of several sat small square packages strapped down with industrial tape, connected to a compact device with short, neat cables.
Too neat.
Yellow labels. Codes.
RDX.
His pulse spiked.
He wasn't an explosives expert, but he'd seen enough crime scenes to recognize a detonator when it was right in front of him.
So this is…
He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick photo, making sure the information was clear. Solid proof. Something they couldn't deny.
He put the phone away.
That was when he felt it.
Not a sound.
Not movement.
A presence.
Kael raised his gun immediately.
In the center of the warehouse, barely lit by a hanging lamp, someone sat on a chair.
Motionless.
Kael advanced slowly, each step heavy, as if the floor itself tried to hold him back. The man's back was turned. He didn't react. He didn't breathe.
No…
When Kael finally made out the figure clearly, his stomach clenched hard.
It was Pinky.
Or what was left of him.
The body was covered in wounds. Bullet holes marked the torso. The head drooped to the side, lifeless. There was no doubt.
But the worst part wasn't that.
A note had been placed on his chest.
Kael approached without lowering his weapon. He read it.
"I shouldn't be a snitch rat."
Below, written with cruel carelessness:
"For the Wolf."
The world seemed to shrink.
"Fuck…" Kael whispered, jaw tight.
He didn't have time for anything else.
The silence shattered suddenly.
Rushed footsteps pounded from the second floor. Voices. Rapid orders. The unmistakable sound of weapons being loaded.
They were waiting for me.
Kael dove for cover just as the first shots exploded, ripping splinters from nearby crates.
The firefight had begun.
Aiden kept chasing them without slowing down. The air burned his lungs, but he wasn't about to stop.
"Bastards…" he growled through clenched teeth. "The moment you stop, you'll see."
The men ran in desperation, tripping over one another, looking back more than they looked forward. Aiden, on the other hand, advanced with an almost unconscious determination, driven more by adrenaline than rational choice.
In the distance, through the deepening darkness, a silhouette began to take shape.
A warehouse.
Not just any warehouse.
It was enormous.
Industrial lights partially illuminated its structure, casting long, warped shadows across the ground. The building rose like a massive block in the middle of the land—silent, waiting.
Aiden recognized it immediately.
Without knowing that two paths were about to cross.