The moment Michael heard it, he lost it.
He burst out laughing—raw, unhinged laughter that echoed across the empty, abandoned park. The sound bounced off rusted swings and broken pavement, loud enough to feel obscene in the silence.
And Vashir?
He just stood there.
Smiling.
An innocent smile. Too innocent.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
MISSION: WORK UNDER "MINT" VASHIR
ACCEPT / DECLINE.
Michael managed to choke out words between laughs, but he didn't touch either option.
"So tell me," he said, wiping tears from his eyes,
"how the fuck do you expect me to work under you?"
Vashir—the sly fox who calculated every outcome, who never spoke without ten plans stacked behind it—didn't lose his smile. Too calm. Too relaxed.
"Not under me," he corrected smoothly, voice like poisoned honey.
"For me. Big difference."
He tilted his head.
"Think of it as… a favor from one outcast to another. From me to you."
Michael's laughter died instantly, replaced by cold seriousness.
Vashir continued, voice steady.
"I know what you're thinking. How could you betray Victor? That man's been your guardian ever since your mother was murdered. Closest thing you had to family. You owe him everything."
Then he added, casually—
"Sure. But here's the thing you need to understand: loyalty is a leash. And the moment it stops paying off, you cut it loose. That's survival. That's the game."
For Michael, Victor wasn't the problem.
He wasn't bound by Victor through loyalty or care.
The real problem stood right in front of him.
Mint Vashir.
A man who didn't fight battles—he made others fight them for him.
A man who slipped thoughts into your head so cleanly that by the time you noticed, you didn't know if they were yours or his.
Michael stopped laughing.
He straightened up.
Then he tossed his answer like a blade.
"I'm not interested."
The system window flickered—
DECLINED
Michael turned and started walking away.
Because the longer you stood in front of someone like Vashir, the more strings he tied around your limbs. And Michael wasn't anyone's puppet.
At least not today.
Then Vashir spoke.
The words that tore Michael's chest open like a forge.
"What if I help you find your mother's murderers?"
For a split second, Michael's chest burned white-hot. Rage slammed into him like a hammer.
"Who the hell does he think he is, Michael thought, bargaining with me using my mother's death?"
Anyone else would've gone straight for Vashir's throat.
But this man never said anything without a reason. Every word had teeth hidden behind that innocent smile.
So instead of lashing out, Michael forced the words through clenched teeth.
"What do you know?"
Vashir's lips curved.
"Not much," he said lightly.
"I don't know who they are… but I do know where they are."
Michael froze.
His pulse pounded like a war drum in his chest.
"Where?" he asked.
Vashir answered calmly,
"A place where even people from the Order of the Hammer wouldn't dare lay a finger."
He smiled.
"Not even the Hammer-Saint would."
Rage flooded Michael, thick and suffocating.
"And who are they?" he demanded.
Vashir's answer landed like a blade between the ribs.
"C.O.S.M.O.S."
"They were responsible for your mother's death."
Michael stood there, rage and confusion tearing through his face.
C.O.S.M.O.S?
What the hell did they have to do with my mother's death?
Was Vashir mocking him?
Or was this another twisted game?
But then again…
This was Mint Vashir.
A man who didn't need lies.
He played people with truths sharpened into knives.
"So?" he pressed, his smile carved on like it had been painted there. "Any changes in your decision?"
Michael ground his teeth. "What do you want me to do?"
He even spread his hands, waiting for applause like a schoolboy answering the teacher.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
MISSION: WORK FOR 'MINT' VASHIR
ACCEPT / DECLINE
Michael stared at him.
"…You're out of your fucking mind," he said flatly. "You think an outcast like me can just stroll into their playground and sign up?"
Vashir didn't flinch.
Instead, he reached into the air itself—as if reality were nothing more than a coat pocket—and pulled something out.
A card.
Sleek. Thin. Glowing with lines of shifting light that hummed softly, like alien circuitry breathing. It didn't belong to this world.
He flicked it toward Michael.
Michael caught it instinctively.
"It's an I.D. card," the man said calmly. "For the new recruits selected yesterday. They've been ranked already. Tomorrow, they're gathering at headquarters."
Michael's eyes narrowed as he studied the card in his palm.
The surface was warm. Alive.
"Show that," Vashir continued, "and walk in with them."
Michael looked up.
"What do you want me to do there?"
Vashir 's face split into a grin.
He clapped—fast, sharp, almost childish—like a kid who'd just seen his favorite candy through a shop window.
"It's simple," he said, practically bouncing on his heels. "Smuggle materials from the Interstellars. The ones I want."
Michael looked back down at the card.
It buzzed against his hardened palm—low, rhythmic, like a heartbeat syncing to his own. Lines of light crawled across its surface, briefly projecting unreadable symbols before fading back into stillness.
And then he hit "ACCEPT."
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
MAIN MISSION UNLOCKED:
ENTER C.O.S.M.O.S. HUNT THE INTERSTELLARS. FIND THE MURDERERS.
REWARDS: REVENGE.
"…Tell me," Michael muttered, eyes locked onto the man, "every chakra user capable of pulling tricks like this?"
Vashir straightened.
Pride bled from every syllable as he spoke.
"No. That—" his gaze sharpened, cutting through the air itself, "—is my specialty. I create what doesn't exist."
And just like that—
He vanished.
No smoke. No distortion. No sound.
One blink, and the space he occupied was empty.
Michael didn't even react.
It wasn't the first time someone had pulled that kind of bullshit around him.
"That bastard never sticks around," Michael muttered, curling his fingers. "Just drops trouble in my lap and disappears like smoke."
A pause.
"…Fine by me. Less baggage to carry."
He turned his back to the ruins where he belong and waited,
For sunrise.
Morning came brutal and bright.
The new headquarters of C.O.S.M.O.S. stood like a monument to control—glass and steel fused into a towering citadel, encircled by water on all sides.
Artificial canals reflected the sun, isolating the structure from the rest of the city like a god standing apart from mortals.
Banners bearing different insignias fluttered in the heated air.
Built atop the ashes of the old headquarters.
The one erased by a meteor.
That was the story the world believed.
But the truth?
You already knew it.
Crowds poured in—wide-eyed, desperate, hopeful. Sheep clutching dreams like scraps of bread.
For some, it was power.
For some, status.
For some… a reason to exist.
Michael walked among them, expression empty.
He wasn't here for dreams.
He was here for revenge.
At the gates, guards stood in formation. High-tech scanners. Heavy rifles. Faces trained into emotionless masks.
One by one, recruits stepped forward.
Cards flashed.
Machines hummed.
Green lights followed.
Then—
Michael stepped up.
Vashir's impossible miracle rested in his palm.
The guard took it.
Scanned.
A hologram erupted into the air.
And the guard froze.
"…What the—"
Another guard leaned in.
Saw the display.
Froze too.
Silence stretched—sharp, unnatural.
Then one of them shouted, voice echoing across the entrance loud enough to shake the walls:
"THE MISSING VELLORY HAS RETURNED!"
The air split.
Murmurs exploded like wildfire.
Heads snapped toward him. Whispers tore through the crowd.
The runaway son of the Vellory patriarch…
Impossible—he came back?
Michael stood still.
Eyes cold. Spine straight.
"So that's what Vashir had done.
He hadn't just forged an ID.
He'd resurrected a ghost.
And now—
Every predator inside C.O.S.M.O.S. had just been alerted."
SYSTEM WARNING:
Many eyes watching you
Many eyes watching you
Many eyes watching you
Michael's stomach sank—and then burned.
"Goddamn it, Vashir," he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening. "Out of all the tricks you could've pulled… you chose this?"
Footsteps echoed.
Ajay Meer strode out of the headquarters, presence alone forcing the crowd to part like a frightened tide. His eyes flicked once to the hovering hologram—and then settled on Michael.
Cold and measuring.
And then finally Calculated.
A predator assessing whether the prey was worth the trouble.
Many eyes watching you.
Many eyes watching you.
Many eyes watching you.
The words hammered inside Michael's skull.
Sweat burned into his palms.
"Was this it?
Was my revenge about to end before it even began?"
Ajay lifted a single hand.
Soldiers moved instantly. Weapons hummed to life. Boots scraped against stone as the circle closed in—tight, efficient, inescapable.
"Just a little investigation, kid," Ajay said smoothly, almost kindly.
The world tilted.
The windows—those damned flickering overlays—flashed again across Michael's vision.
Many eyes watching you.
Many eyes watching you.
Many eyes watching you.
Then—
Michael smirked.
Annoyed but still excited.
Alive.
"Sure," he said.
Because at this point—
There was no turning back for Michael.
And whatever waited for him inside C.O.S.M.O.S.,
it would learn one thing very quickly—
He wasn't trapped with them.
They'd just invited him in.