Panic choked the halls of the Assassin Federation.
Footsteps rang like warning bells across the marble floors, faces tense, whispers sharp as blades. Shadows seemed heavier, lingering like bad omens. The silence from the field had stretched too long. No updates. No messages. And now—Nana was confirmed down.
This was no longer just another operation. This was war.
A sharp creak cut through the tension as the heavy iron doors flung open. Zeph, tall and wrapped in a coat of night, stepped in like a thunderclap.
His voice silenced the murmurs.
"We need three squads. Seven in each," Zeph said, his tone cold and urgent. "This mission is no longer routine. It's a response."
The room froze.
Some swallowed hard. Others averted their eyes. Nana—cocky, defiant, deadly—wasn't just another assassin. She was one of them. And now she was gone.
Zeph's eyes darkened, fury hidden beneath calm calculation.
"The Aria of Veins..." he muttered, almost to himself, "They don't know what they've started."
Outside, the wind howled like a prophecy, brushing against the old stone like the breath of a coming massacre.
The Assassin Federation was in disarray—whispers blooming into panic, shadows turning frantic. Another blackout. No report. No signal. Another failure.
And then the words dropped like stones:
"Nana is down."
A hush deeper than death swept through the hall.
In that moment, Zeph entered the war room like a knife through fabric, his presence commanding but heavy, eyes dim with the weight of what he already suspected.
"We move now. Three squads, seven in each. This isn't just another job. This is blood for blood. The Aria of Veins… they don't know what they've started."
No one questioned him.
The squads were assembled with surgical precision, each led by a veteran, each assigned their role like pawns in a deadly ritual. Zeph's team was the spear—direct infiltration. Neo's forgotten access tunnel, the one choked with mold and memories, was their path.
The walls pressed in on them as they moved.
Narrow. Cold. Breathing darkness.
Their footsteps were silent, but the tension screamed.
And then they saw it.
Crimson splattered across the wall like a painting done in rage. A body, slumped in the filth of the hallway. Familiar armor torn. Blood dried like rust.
No head.
Zeph's breath caught in his throat.
His knees hit the ground with a force that echoed. He pulled the body into his arms—delicate, careful, as if touching it too roughly would break something already gone.
"Nana…" he whispered. "Why…?"
His voice trembled. A soldier's voice—not meant for grieving.
"You were strong… so strong…"
"I will kill them. I swear it. I will—"
A silence colder than death itself fell.
A shape emerged from nowhere.
No door opened. No step was heard. No breath was felt.
It was as if the void had grown eyes and chosen to speak.
Noct.
He stood in the hallway with hands behind his back, head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable—half pity, half disdain. Metro clung to him like a second skin, alive but unseen.
"Kill me then," he said softly, as if offering Zeph a gift.
Noct's voice was not raised.
But it sank into their chests like an anchor—something old, mocking, and patient.
Zeph rose slowly. Tears still burned in his eyes, but now they glowed with something else.
The room no longer breathed.
And the game was just beginning.